ESTROYING 
ANGEL 


LOUISJOSEPH  VANCE 


THE  DESTROYING  ANGEL 


Whitaker's  jaw  dropped  and  his  eyes  widened  with  wonder  and  pity 

FRONTISPIECE.     See  Page  179 


The 

Destroying  Angel 

By  LOUIS  JOSEPH  VANCE 


Author  of   "The  Brass  Bowl,"   "The  Bronze  Bell,' 
"The  Bandbox,"  "Cynthia  of  the  Minute,"  Etc. 


WITH  POUR  ILLUSTRATIONS 

BY  ARTHUR  I.  KELLER 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1912, 
BY  Lours  JOSEPH  VANCE. 


Att  rights  reserved,  including  those  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian. 

Published,  October,  1912. 


TO 
ROBERT  HOBART  DAVIS 


2227S16 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.    DOOM 


II.    THE  LAST  STRAW 5 

III.  "  MRS.  MORTEN  " l£> 

IV.  MRS.  WHITAKER 28 

V.     WILFUL  MISSING 45 

VI.    CURTAIN 68 

VII.    THE  LATE  EXTRA 83 

VIII.    A  HISTORY 94 

IX.     ENTR'ACTE 112 

X.    THE  WINDOW 124 

XL    THE  SPY 140 

XII.    THE  MOUSE-TRAP 165 

XIII.  OFFSHORE 184 

XIV.  DEBACLE 20» 

XV.    DISCLOSURES 217 

XVI.    THE  BEACON 233 

XVII.    DISCOVERY 252 

XVIII.    BLIGHT 257 

XIX.    CAPITULATION 270 

XX.    TEMPERAMENTAL 288 

XXI.  BLACK  OUT   .                                               .  310 


yii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Whitaker's  jaw  dropped  and  his  eyes  widened  with 

wonder  and  pity      Frontispiece 

Her  eyes  fastened  dilating,  upon  his.     The  scene 

faltered  perceptibly PAGE      82 

Whitaker  felt  land  beneath  his  feet "      215 

"  I  do  not  love  you.     You  are  mad  to  think  it "  "       309 


THE   DESTROYING   ANGEL 


DOOM 

"THEN  I'm  to  understand  there's  no  hope  for  me?" 

"I'm  afraid  not  ..."  Greyerson  said  reluctantly,  sym 
pathy  in  his  eyes. 

"None  whatever."  The  verdict  was  thus  brusquely 
emphasized  by  Hartt,  one  of  the  two  consulting  specialists. 

Having  spoken,  he  glanced  at  his  watch,  then  at  the  face 
of  his  colleague,  Bushnell,  who  contented  himself  with  a 
tolerant  waggle  of  his  head,  apparently  meant  to  imply  that 
the  subject  of  their  deliberations  really  must  be  reasonable : 
anybody  who  wilfully  insists  on  footing  the  measures  of  life 
with  a  defective  constitution  for  a  partner  has  no  logical 
excuse  for  being  reluctant  to  pay  the  Piper. 

Whitaker  looked  quickly  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  three 
judges,  acutely  sensitive  to  the  dread  significance  to  be  de 
tected  in  the  expression  of  each.  He  found  only  one  kind 
and  pitiful :  no  more  than  might  have  been  expected  of 
Greyerson,  who  was  his  friend.  Of  the  others,  Hartt  had 
assumed  a  stony  glare  to  mask  the  nervousness  so  plainly 
betrayed  by  his  staccato  accents ;  it  hurt  him  to  inflict  pain, 
and  he  was  horribly  afraid  lest  the  patient  break  down  and 
"make  a  scene."  Bushnell,  on  the  other  hand,  was  imper- 

1 


g        THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

turbable  by  nature :  a  man  to  whom  all  men  were  simply 
"cases";  he  sat  stroking  his  long  chin  and  hoping  that 
Whitaker  would  have  the  decency  soon  to  go  and  leave 
them  free  to  talk  shop  —  his  pet  dissipation. 

Failing  to  extract  the  least  glimmering  of  hope  from  the 
attitude  of  any  one  of  them,  Whitaker  drew  a  long  breath, 
unconsciously  bracing  himself  in  his  chair. 

"It's  funny,"  he  said  with  his  nervous  smile—  "hard  to 
realize,  I  mean.  You  see,  I  feel  so  fit  — 

"Between  attacks,"  Hartt  interjected  quickly. 

"Yes,"  Whitaker  had  to  admit,  dashed. 

"Attacks,"  said  Bushnell,  heavily,  "recurrent  at  intervals 
constantly  more  brief,  each  a  trifle  more  severe  than  its 
predecessor." 

He  shut  his  thin  lips  tight,  as  one  who  has  consciously 
pronounced  the  last  word. 

Greyerson  sighed. 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  argued  the  prisoner  at  the  bar, 
plaintively  bewildered.  "Why,  I  rowed  with  the  Crew 
three  years  hand-running  —  not  a  sign  of  anything  wrong 
with  me  ! " 

"If  you  had  then  had  proper  professional  advice,  you 
would  have  spared  yourself  such  strains.  But  it's  too  late 
now ;  the  mischief  can't  be  undone." 

Evidently  Bushnell  considered  the  last  word  his  preroga 
tive.  Whitaker  turned  from  him  impatiently. 

"What  about  an  operation?"  he  demanded  of  Greyerson. 

The  latter  looked  away,  making  only  a  slight  negative  mo 
tion  with  his  head. 


DOOM  3 

"The   knife?"    observed   Hartt.     "That   would    merely 
hasten  matters." 
;  "Yes,"  Bushnell  affirmed.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  brief  uneasy  silence  in  the  gloomy  consulting 
room.  Then  Whitaker  rose. 

"  Well,  how  long  will  you  give  me  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  strained 
voice. 

"Six  months,"  said  Greyerson,  miserably  avoiding  his  eye. 

"Three,"  Hartt  corrected  jerkily. 

"Perhaps  .  .  .  '  The  proprietor  of  the  last  word  stroked 
his  chin  with  a  contemplative  air. 

"Thanks,"  said  Whitaker,  without  irony.  He  stood  for 
an  instant  with  his  head  bowed  in  thought.  "What  a 
damned  outrage,"  he  observed  thoughtfully.  And  suddenly 
he  turned  and  flung  out  of  the  room. 

Greyerson  jumped  to  follow  him,  but  paused  as  he  heard 
the  crash  of  the  street  door.  He  turned  back  with  a  twitching, 
apologetic  smile. 

"Poor  devil !"  he  said,  sitting  down  at  his  desk  and  fishing 
a  box  of  cigars  from  one  of  the  drawers. 

"Takes  it  hard,"  commented  Hartt. 

"You  would,  too,  at  his  age;  he's  barely  twenty-five." 

"Must  feel  more  or  less  like  a  fellow  whose  wife  has  run 
off  with  his  best  friend." 

"No  comparison,"  said  Bushnell  bluntly.  "Go  out,  get 
yourself  arrested  for  a  brutal  murder  you  didn't  commit,  get 
tried  and  sentenced  to  death  within  six  months,  the  precise 
date  being  left  to  the  discretion  of  the  executioner  —  then 
you'll  know  how  he  feels." 


4        THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"If  you  ask  me"   —  Greyerson  handed  round  the  box — 
"he  feels  pretty  shaky  and  abused,  and  he  wants  a  drink 
badly  —  the  same  as  me." 

He  unlocked  a  cellaret. 

"Married?"  Hartt  inquired. 

"No.  That's  the  only  mitigating  circumstance,"  said 
Greyerson,  distributing  glasses.  "He's  quite  alone  in  the 
world,  as  far  as  I  know  —  no  near  relatives,  at  least." 

"Well  off?" 

"Tolerably.  Comes  of  good  people.  Believe  his  family 
had  a  lot  of  money  at  one  time.  Don't  know  how  much  of 
it  there  was  left  for  Whitaker.  He's  junior  partner  in  a 
young  law  firm  down-town  —  senior  a  friend  or  classmate 
of  his,  I  understand  :  Drummond  &  Whitaker.  Moves  with 
the  right  sort  of  people.  Young  Stark  —  Peter  Stark  — 
is  his  closest  friend.  .  .  .  Well.  .  .  .  Say  when." 


n 

THE   LAST  STRAW 

GREYERSON  was  right  in  his  surmise  as  to  Hugh  Whitaker's 
emotions.  His  soul  still  numb  with  shock,  his  mind  was  al 
together  preoccupied  with  petulant  resentment  of  the  unfair 
ness  of  it  all ;  on  the  surface  of  the  stunning  knowledge  that 
he  might  count  on  no  more  than  six  months  of  life,  floated 
this  thin  film  of  sensation  of  personal  grievance.  He  had 
done  nothing  to  deserve  this.  The  sheer  brutality  of  it  ... 

He  felt  very  shaky  indeed. 

He  stood  for  a  long  time  —  how  long  he  never  knew  — 
bareheaded  on  a  corner,  just  as  he  had  left  Greyerson's  office  : 

scowling  at  nothing,  considering  the  enormity  of  the  wrong 
\ 

that  had  been  put  upon  him.  Later,  realizing  that  people 
were  staring,  he  clapped  on  his  hat  to  satisfy  them  and  strode 
aimlessly  down  Sixth  Avenue.  It  was  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  of  a  day  late  in  April  —  a  raw,  chilly,  dark,  un 
seasonable  brute  of  a  day.  He  found  himself  walking  fast, 
instinctively,  to  keep  his  blood  in  warm  circulation,  and  this 
struck  him  as  so  inconsistent  that  presently  he  stopped 
short  and  snarled  at  himself : 

"  You  blithering  fool,  what  difference  does  it  make  whether 
you're  warm  or  cold  ?  Don't  you  understand  you're  going 
to  die  within  half  a  year?*' 

He  strove  manfully  to  grapple  with  this  hideous  fact.  He 

5 


6        THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

felt  so  well,  so  strong  and  efficient ;  and  yet  he  walked  in  the 
black  shadow  of  death,  a  shadow  from  which  there  was  for 
him  no  escape. 

He  thought  it  the  damnedest  sensation  imaginable  ! 

On  top  of  this  reflection  came  the  third  clause  of  Greyer- 
son's  analysis:  he  made  the  discovery  that  he  wanted  a 
drink — a  lot  of  drinks:  in  point  of  fact,  more  then  he  had 
ever  had  before,  enough  to  make  him  forget. 

He  turned  across-town  toward  Fifth  Avenue,  came  to  his 
club,  and  went  in.  Passing  through  the  office,  force  of  habit 
swung  his  gaze  to  the  letter-rack.  There  was  a  square 
white  envelope  in  the  W  pigeonhole,  and  it  proved  to  be 
addressed  to  him.  He  knew  the  handwriting  very  well  — 
too  well ;  his  heart  gave  a  great  jump  as  he  recognized  it, 
and  then  sank  like  a  stone ;  for  not  only  must  he  die,  but  he 
must  give  up  the  girl  he  loved  and  had  planned  to  marry. 
The  first  thing  he  meant  to  do  (after  getting  that  drink) 
was  to  write  to  her  and  explain  and  release  her  from  her 
promise.  The  next  thing  .  .  . 

He  refused  to  let  the  idea  of  the  next  step  form  in  his 
mind.  But  he  knew  very  well  what  it  would  be.  In  the 
backwards  of  his  understanding  it  lurked  —  a  gray,  grisly, 
shameful  shadow. 

"Anyhow,"  he  muttered,  "I'm  not  going  to  stick  round 
here,  dying  by  inches,  wearing  the  sympathy  of  my  friends  to 
tatters." 

But  as  yet  he  dared  not  name  the  alternative. 

He  stuffed  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  and  passed  on  to  the 
elevator  gates,  meaning  to  go  up  to  the  library  and  there  have 


THE    LAST    STRAW  7 

his  drink  and  read  his  letter  and  write  the  answer,  in  peace 
and  quiet.  The  problem  of  that  answer  obsessed  his 
thoughts.  It  would  be  hard  —  hard  to  write  —  that  letter 
that  meant  the  breaking  of  a  woman's  faithful  heart. 

The  elevator  kept  him  waiting  a  moment  or  two,  just 
round  the  corner  from  the  grill-room  door,  whence  came  a 
sound  of  voices  talking  and  laughing.  One  was  Billy  Ham 
ilton's  unmistakable  semi-jocular  drawl.  Whitaker  knew 
it  without  thinking  of  it,  even  as  he  heard  what  was  being 
said  without,  at  first,  comprehending  —  heard  and  after 
wards  remembered  in  vivid  detail. 

"Seems  to  be  the  open  season  for  runaways,"  Hamilton 
was  saying.  "  It's  only  a  few  days  since  Thurlow  Ladislas's 
daughter  —  what's  her  name  ?  —  Mary  —  took  the  bit 
between  her  teeth  and  bolted  with  the  old  man's  chauffeur." 

Somebody  asked :  "  How  far  did  they  get  before  old  Ladis- 
las  caught  up?" 

"He  didn't  give  chase.  He's  not  that  kind.  If  he  was 
put  to  it,  old  Thurlow  could  play  the  unforgiving  parent  in  a 
melodrama  without  any  make-up  whatever." 

"  That's  right,"  little  Fiske's  voice  put  in.  "  Chap  I  know 
on  the  Herald  —  reporter  —  was  sent  to  interview  him,  but 
old  Ladislas  told  him  quite  civilly  that  he'd  been  misin 
formed  —  he  hadn't  any  daughter  named  Mary.  Meaning, 
of  course,  that  the  girl  had  defied  him,  and  that  his  doors  were 
thenceforth  barred  to  her." 

"He's  just  like  that, ' '  said  Hamilton .  " Remember  his  other 
daughter,  Grace,  eloping  with  young  Pettit  a  few  years  ago  ? 
Old  Ladislas  had  a  down  on  Pettit  —  who's  a  decent  enough 


8         THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

kid,  notwithstanding  —  so  Grace  was  promptly  disowned 
and  cast  into  the  outer  darkness,  where  there's  weeping  and 
wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth,  because  Pettit's  only  some- 
thing-on-a-small-salary  in  the  diplomatic  service,  and  they've 
no  hope  of  ever  touching  a  penny  of  the  Ladislas  coin." 

"  But  what  became  of  them  —  Mary  and  the  stoker- 
person?" 

"Nobody  knows,  except  possibly  themselves.  They're 
laying  low  and  —  probably  —  getting  first-hand  information 
as  to  the  quantity  of  cheese  and  kisses  they  can  afford  on 
chauffeur's  pay." 

"What's  she  like,  this  Mary-quite-contrary?"  inquired 
George  Brenton's  voice.  "Anybody  ever  see  her?" 

"Oh,  nothing  but  a  kid,"  said  little  Fiske.  "I  used  to  see 
her  often,  last  summer,  kiting  round  Southampton  on  a  bike. 
The  old  man's  so  mean  he  wouldn't  let  her  use  the  car  alone. 
.  .  .  Weedy  little  beggar,  all  legs  and  eyes  —  skirts  to  her 
shoe-tops  and  hair  to  her  waist." 

"Not  over  eighteen,  I  gather?" 

"Oh,  not  a  day,"  little  Fiske  affirmed. 

The  elevator  was  waiting  by  this  time,  but  Whitaker  paused 
an  instant  before  taking  it,  chiefly  because  the  sound  of  his 
own  name,  uttered  by  Hamilton,  had  roused  him  out  of  the 
abstraction  in  which  he  had  overheard  the  preceding  con 
versation. 

"Anyhow,  I'm  sorry  for  Hugh  Whitaker.  He's  going  to 
take  this  hard,  mighty  hard." 

George  Brenton  asked,  as  if  surprised :  "What?  I  didn't 
know  he  was  interested  in  that  quarter." 


THE    LAST    STRAW  9 

"You  must  be  blind.  Alice  Carstairs  has  had  him  going 
for  a  year.  Everybody  thought  she  was  only  waiting  for 
him  to  make  some  big  money  —  he  as  much  as  anybody,  I 
fancy." 

Brenton  added  the  last  straw.  "That's  tough,"  he  said 
soberly.  "Whitaker's  a  white  man,  and  Alice  Carstairs 
didn't  deserve  him.  But  I  wouldn't  blame  any  man  for 
feeling  cut-up  to  be  throv.  n  over  for  an  out-and-out  rotter 
like  Percy  Grimshaw."  .  .  . 

Whitaker  heard  no  more.  At  the  first  mention  of  the  name 
of  Alice  Carstairs  he  had  snatched  her  letter  from  his  pocket 
and  thrust  his  thumb  beneath  the  flap.  Now  he  had  with 
drawn  the  enclosure  and  was  reading. 

When  a  mean-spirited,  selfish  woman  starts  in  to  justify 
herself  (especially,  on  paper)  for  doing  something  thoroughly 
contemptible,  the  result  is  apt  to  be  bitterly  unfair  to  every 
body  involved  —  except  herself.  Nobody  will  ever  know 
just  what  Alice  Carstairs  saw  fit  to  write  to  Hugh  Whitaker 
when  she  made  up  her  mind  to  run  away  with  another  man ; 
but  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  they  were  venomous  words 
he  read,  standing  there  under  the  curious  eyes  of  the  elevator 
boy  and  the  pages.  The  blood  ebbed  from  his  face  and  left 
it  ghastly,  and  when  he  had  torn  the  paper  to  shreds  and  let 
them  flutter  about  his  feet,  he  swayed  perceptibly  —  so  much 
so  that  one  of  the  pages  took  alarm  and  jumped  to  his  side. 

"Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Whitaker  —  did  you  call  me?" 

Whitaker  steadied  himself  and  stared  until  he  recognized 
the  boy.  "No,"  he  said  thickly,  "but  I  want  you.  Give 
me  a  bar  order." 


10       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

The  boy  produced  the  printed  form  and  Whitaker  hastily 
scribbled  his  order  on  it.  "Bring  that  up  to  the  library," 
he  said,  "  and  be  quick  about  it." 

He  stumbled  into  the  elevator,  and  presently  found  himself 
in  the  library.  There  was  no  one  else  about,  and  Whitaker 
was  as  glad  of  that  as  it  was  in  him  to  be  glad  of  anything 
just  then.  He  dropped  heavily  into  a  big  arm-chair  and 
waited,  his  brain  whirling  and  seething,  his  nerves  on  edge 
and  screeching.  In  this  state  Peter  Stark  found  him. 

Peter  sauntered  into  the  room  with  a  manner  elaborately 
careless.  Beneath  that  mask  he  was  anything  but  indifferent, 
just  as  his  appearance  was  anything  but  fortuitous.  It  hap 
pened  that  the  page  who  had  taken  Whitaker's  order,  know 
ing  that  Peter  and  Hugh  were  close  friends,  and  suspecting 
that  something  was  wrong  with  the  latter,  had  sought  out 
Peter  before  going  to  get  the  order  filled.  Moreover,  Peter 
had  already  heard  about  Alice  Carstairs  and  Percy  Grimshaw. 

"Hel-/o/"  he  said,  contriving  by  mere  accident  to  catch 
sight  of  Whitaker,  who  was  almost  invisible  in  the  big  chair 
with  its  back  to  the  body  of  the  room.  "  What  you  doing  up 
here,  Hugh?  What's  up?" 

"It's  all  up,"  said  Whitaker,  trying  to  pull  himself  together. 
"Everything's  up!" 

"Don't  believe  it,"  said  Stark,  coolly.  "My  feet  are  on 
the  ground ;  but  you  look  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost." 

"  I  have  —  my  own,"  said  Whitaker.  The  page  now  stood 
beside  him  with  a  tray.  "  Open  it,"  he  told  the  boy,  indicating 
a  half-bottle  of  champagne ;  and  then  to  Peter :  "  I'm  having 
a  bath.  Won't  you  jump  in  ?" 


THE    LAST    STRAW  11 

Peter  whistled,  watching  the  wine  cream  over  the  brandy 
in  the  long  glass.  "King's  peg,  eh  ?"  he  said,  with  a  lift  of 
disapproving  eyebrows.  "Here,  boy,  bring  me  some  Scotch 
and  plain  water  for  common  people." 

The  boy  disappeared  as  Whitaker  lifted  his  glass. 

"I'm  not  waiting,"  he  said  bluntly.     "I  need  this  now." 

"That's  a  question,  in  my  mind,  at  least.  Don't  you 
think  you've  had  about  enough  for  one  day  ? " 

"I  leave  it  to  your  superior  knowledge  of  my  capacity," 
said  Whitaker,  putting  aside  the  empty  glass.  "That's  my 
first  to-day." 

Peter  saw  that  he  was  telling  the  truth,  but  the  edge  of 
his  disapproval  remained  keen. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "  that  the  man  who  started 
that  lie  about  drink  making  a  fellow  forget  died  the  death  of 
a  dog.  He  deserved  to,  anyway,  because  it's  one  of  the  cruel- 
lestf practical  jokes  ever  perpetrated  on  the  human  race.  I 
know,  because  I've  tried  it  on,  hard  —  and  waked  up  sick 
to  my  marrow  to  remember  what  a  disgusting  ass  I'd  made 
of  myself  for  all  to  behold."  He  stopped  at  Whitaker's  side 
and  dropped  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Hugh,"  he  said, 
"you're  one  of  the  best.  Don't  .  .  .  ' 

Whatever  he  had  meant  to  say,  he  left  unfinished  because 
of  the  return  of  the  page  with  his  Scotch ;  but  he  had  said 
enough  to  let  Whitaker  understand  that  he  knew  about 
the  Carstairs  affair. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Whitaker;  "I'm  not  going  to 
make  a  damn'  fool  of  myself,  but  I  am  in  a  pretty  bad  way. 
Boy-" 


12       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Hold  on!"  Peter  interrupted.  "You're  not  going  to 
order  another  ?  What  you've  had  is  enough  to  galvanize  a 
corpse." 

"Barring  the  negligible  difference  of  a  few  minutes  or 
months,  that's  me,"  returned  Whitaker.  "But  never  mind, 
boy  —  run  along." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  Peter  remarked, 
obviously  worried. 

"  I  mean  that  I'm  practically  a  dead  man  —  so  near  it  that 
it  makes  no  difference." 

"The  devil  you  say  !    What's  the  matter  with  you  ? " 

"  Ask  Greyerson.  I  can't  remember  the  name  —  it's  too 
long  —  and  I  couldn't  pronounce  it  if  I  did." 

Peter's  eyes  narrowed.  "What  foolishness  has  Greyer- 
son  been  putting  into  your  head?"  he  demanded.  "I've  a 
good  mind  to  go  punch  his  — 

"It  isn't  his  fault,"  Whitaker  asserted.  "It's  my  own  - 
or  rather,  it's  something  in  the  nature  of  a  posthumous  gift 
from  my  progenitors ;  several  of  'em  died  of  it,  and  now  it 
seems  I  must.  Greyerson  says  so,  at  least,  and  when  I  didn't 
believe  him  he  called  in  Hartt  and  Bushnell  to  hold  my  ante- 
mortem.  They  made  it  unanimous.  If  I'm  uncommonly 
lucky  I  may  live  to  see  next  Thanksgiving." 

"Oh,  shut  up  !"  Peter  exploded  viciously.  "You  make  me 
tired  —  you  and  your  bone-headed  M.D.'s  ! " 

He  worked  himself  into  a  comforting  rage,  damning  the 
medical  fraternity  liberally  for  a  gang  of  bloodthirsty  assas 
sins  and  threatening  to  commit  assault  and  battery  upon  the 
person  of  Greyerson,  though  Whitaker  did  his  best  to  make 


THE    LAST    STRAW  13 

him  understand  that  matters  were  what  they  were  —  ir 
remediable. 

"You  won't  find  any  higher  authorities  than  Hartt  and 
Bushnell,"  he  said.  "They  are  the  court  of  last  resort  in 
such  cases.  When  they  hand  down  a  decision,  there's  no 
come-back." 

"You  can't  make  me  believe  that,"  Peter  insisted.  "It 
just  can't  be  so.  A  man  like  you,  who's  always  lived  clean 
.  .  .  Why,  look  at  your  athletic  record  !  Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  a  fellow  could  hold  a  job  as  undisputed  best  all-round 
man  in  his  class  for  four  years,  and  all  the  time  handicapped 
by  a  constitutional  .  .  .  ?  Oh,  get  out !  Don't  talk  to  me. 
I'm  far  more  likely  to  be  doing  my  bit  beneath  the  daisies 
six  months  from  now  ...  I  won't  believe  it ! " 

His  big,  red,  generous  fist  described  a  large  and  inconclu 
sive  gesture  of  violence. 

"Well,"  he  growled  finally,  "grant  all  this — which  I  don't, 
not  for  one  little  minute  —  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  said  Whitaker:  "I  don't 
know.  Wish  I  did.  Up  to  within  the  last  few  minutes  I 
fully  intended  to  cut  the  knot  with  my  own  knife.  It's  not 
reasonable  to  ask  a  man  to  sit  still  and  watch  himself  go 
slowly  to  pieces  .  .  .  ' 

"No,"  said  Stark,  sitting  down.  "No,"  he  admitted 
grudgingly;  "but  I'm  glad  you've  given  that  up,  because 
I'm  right  and  all  these  fool  doctors  are  wrong.  You'll  see. 
But  .  .  .  '  He  couldn't  help  being  curious.  "  But  why  ?  " 

"Well,"  Whitaker  considered  slowly  —  "it's  Alice  Car- 
stairs.  You  know  what  she's  done." 


14       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  —  that  you  think 
there's  any  consideration  due  her?" 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  Whitaker  smiled  wearily.  "  Perhaps  you're 
right.  I  don't  know.  We  won't  discuss  the  ethics  of  the 
situation ;  right  or  wrong,  I  don't  mean  to  shadow  whatever 
happiness  she  has  in  store  for  her  by  ostentatiously  snuffing 
myself  out  just  now." 

Peter  gulped  and  succeeded  in  saying  nothing.  But  he 
stared. 

"At  the  same  time,"  Whitaker  resumed,  "I  don't  think  I 
can  stand  this  sort  of  thing.  I  can't  go  round  with  my  flesh 
creeping  to  hear  the  whisperings  behind  my  back.  I've  got 
to  do  something  —  get  away  somewhere." 

Abrupt  inspiration  sparked  the  imagination  of  Peter  Stark, 
and  he  began  to  sputter  with  enthusiasm. 

"I've  got  it !"  he  cried,  jumping  to  his  feet.  "A  sea  trip's 
just  the  thing.  Chances  are,  it'll  turn  the  trick — bring  you 
round  all  right-O,  and  prove  what  asses  doctors  are.  What 
d'you  say  ?  Are  you  game  for  a  sail  ?  The  Adventuress  is 
laid  up  at  New  Bedford  now,  but  I  can  have  her  put  in  com 
mission  within  three  days.  We'll  do  it  —  we'll  just  light 
out,  old  man  !  We'll  try  that  South  Seas  thing  we've  talked 
about  so  long.  WTiat  d'you  say  ?  " 

A  warm  light  glowed  in  Whitaker's  sunken  eyes.  He 
nodded  slowly. 


Ill 


IT  was  three  in  the  morning  before  Peter  Stark,  having  to 
the  best  of  his  endurance  and  judgment  tired  Whitaker  out 
with  talking,  took  his  hat  and  his  departure  from  Whitaker's 
bachelor  rooms.  He  went  with  little  misgiving;  Whitaker 
was  so  weary  that  he  would  have  to  sleep  before  he  could 
think  and  again  realize  his  terror;  and  everything  was 
arranged.  Peter  had  telegraphed  to  have  the  Adventuress 
rushed  into  commission;  they  were  to  go  aboard  her  the 
third  day  following.  In  the  meantime,  Whitaker  would  have 
little  leisure  in  which  to  brood,  the  winding  up  of  his  affairs 
being  counted  upon  to  occupy  him.  Peter  had  his  own  affairs 
to  look  to,  for  that  matter,  but  he  was  prepared  to  slight 
them  if  necessary,  in  order  that  Whitaker  might  not  be  left 
too  much  to  himself.  .  .  . 

Whitaker  shut  the  hall  door,  when  the  elevator  had  taken 
Peter  away,  and  turned  back  wearily  into  his  living-room. 
It  was  three  in  the  morning;  his  body  ached  with  fatigue, 
his  eyes  were  hot  and  aching  in  their  sockets,  and  his  mouth 
hot  and  parched  with  excess  of  smoking;  yet  he  made  no 
move  toward  his  bedchamber.  Insomnia  was  a  diagnostic 
of  his  malady :  a  fact  he  hadn't  mentioned  to  his  friend.  He 
had  little  wish  to  surrender  his  mind  to  the  devils  that 
haunt  a  wakeful  pillow,  especially  now  when  he  could 

15 


16       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

feel  the  reaction  setting  in  from  the  anodynous  excitement  of 
the  last  few  hours.  Peter  Stark's  whirlwind  enthusiasm  had 
temporarily  swept  him  oft'  his  feet,  and  he  had  yielded  to  it, 
unresisting,  selfish  enough  to  want  to  be  carried  away  against 
the  wiser  counsels  of  his  intuition. 

But  now,  alone,  doubts  beset  him. 

Picking  his  way  across  a  floor  littered  with  atlases,  charts, 
maps  and  guide-books,  he  resumed  his  chair  and  pipe  and 
with  the  aid  of  a  copy  of  "The  Wrecker"  and  a  nightcap, 
strove  to  drug  himself  again  with  the  fascination  of  the  pro 
jected  voyage.  But  the  savour  had  gone  out  of  it  all.  An 
hour  before  he  had  been  able  to  distil  a  potent  magic,  thought 
obliterating,  by  sheer  force  of  repetition  of  the  names,  Apia, 
Hawaii,  Tahiti,  Samoa  .  .  .  Now  all  their  promise  was  an 
emptiness  and  a  mockery.  The  book  slipped  unheeded  from 
his  grasp;  his  pipe  grew  cold  between  his  teeth;  his  eyes 
burned  like  lamps  in  their  deep  hollows,  with  their  steady 
and  undeviating  glare.  .  .  . 

Dawn-dusk  filled  the  high  windows  with  violet  light  before 
he  moved. 

He  rose,  went  to  the  bath-room  and  took  a  bottle  of  chloral 
from  the  medicine-closet.  He  wondered  at  the  steadiness  of 
the  hand  that  measured  out  the  prescribed  dose  —  no  more, 
no  less.  He  wondered  at  the  strength  of  will  which  enabled 
him  to  take  no  more.  There  was  enough  in  the  bottle  to 
purchase  him  eternity. 

What  he  took  bought  him  three  hours  of  oblivion.  He  rose 
at  eight,  ordered  his  breakfast  up  by  telephone,  bathed  and 
dressed.  When  the  tray  came  up,  his  mail  came  with  it. 


"MRS.    MORTEN"  17 

Among  others  there  was  one  letter  in  a  woman's  hand  which 
he  left  till  the  last,  amusing  himself  by  trying  to  guess  the 
identity  of  the  writer,  the  writing  being  not  altogether  strange 
to  him.  When  at  length  he  gave  over  this  profitless  employ 
ment,  he  read : 

"  DEAR  HUGH  :  I  can  call  you  that,  now,  because  you're  Peter's 
dearest  friend  and  therefore  mine,  and  the  proof  of  that  is  that  I'm 
telling  you  first  of  all  of  our  great  happiness.  Peter  and  I  found  out 
that  we  loved  one  another  only  yesterday,  so  we're  going  to  be 
married  the  first  of  June  and  ..." 

Whitaker  read  no  more.  He  could  guess  the  rest,  and  for 
the  moment  he  felt  too  sick  a  man  to  go  through  to  the  end. 
Indeed,  the  words  were  blurring  and  running  together  beneath 
his  gaze. 

After  a  long  time  he  put  the  letter  aside,  absent-mindedly 
swallowed  a  cup  of  lukewarm  coffee  and  rose  from  an  other 
wise  untasted  meal. 

"That  settles  that,  of  course,"  he  said  quietly.  "And 
it  means  I've  got  to  hustle  to  get  ahead  of  Peter." 

He  set  busily  about  his  preparations,  thinking  quickly 
while  he  packed.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had,  after  all, 
several  hours  in  which  to  catch  together  the  loose  ends  of 
things  and  make  an  exit  without  leaving  the  businesses  of 
his  clients  in  a  hopeless  snarl ;  Peter  Stark  would  sleep  till 
eleven,  at  least,  and  it  would  be  late  in  the  afternoon  be 
fore  the  young  man  could  see  his  fiancee  and  find  out  from 
her  that  Whitaker  knew  of  the  sacrifice  Peter  contemplated 
for  friendship's  sake. 

WThitaker  packed  a  hand-bag  with  a  few  essentials,  not 


forgetting  the  bottle  of  chloral.  He  was  not  yet  quite  sure 
what  he  meant  to  do  after  he  had  definitely  put  himself  out 
of  Peter  Stark's  sphere  of  influence,  but  he  hadn't  much 
doubt  that  the  drug  was  destined  to  play  a  most  important 
part  in  the  ultimate  solution,  and  would  as  readily  have 
thought  of  leaving  it  behind  as  of  going  without  a  tooth 
brush  or  railway  fare. 

Leaving  the  bag  in  the  parcels-room  at  the  Grand  Central 
Station,  he  went  down-town  to  his  office  and  put  in  a  busy 
morning.  Happily  his  partner,  Drummond,  was  out  of 
town  for  the  day ;  so  he  was  able  to  put  his  desk  in  order 
unhindered  by  awkward  questionings.  He  worked  expedi- 
tiously,  having  no  callers  until  just  before  he  was  ready  to 
leave.  Then  he  was  obliged  to  admit  one  who  desired  to 
make  a  settlement  in  an  action  brought  against  him  by 
Messrs.  Drummond  &  Whitaker.  He  took  Whitaker's  re 
ceipt  for  the  payment  in  cash,  leaving  behind  him  fifteen 
one-hundred-dollar  notes.  Whitaker  regarded  this  circum 
stance  as  a  special  dispensation  of  Providence  to  save  him 
the  bother  of  stopping  at  the  bank  on  his  way  up-town ;  drew 
his  personal  check  for  the  right  amount  and  left  it  with  a 
memorandum  under  the  paper-weight  on  Drummond's  desk ; 
put  a  match  to  a  shredded  pile  of  personal  correspondence  in 
the  fireplace;  and  caught  a  train  at  the  Grand  Central  at 
one-three. 

Not  until  the  cars  were  in  motion  did  he  experience  any 
sense  of  security  from  Peter  Stark.  He  had  been  apprehen 
sive  until  that  moment  of  some  unforeseen  move  on  the 
part  of  his  friend ;  Peter  was  capable  of  wide  but  sure  casts 


"MRS.    MORTEN"  19 

of  intuition  on  occasion,  especially  where  his  affections  were 
touched.  But  now  Whitaker  felt  free,  free  to  abandon  him 
self  to  meditative  despair;  and  he  did  it,  as  he  did  most 
things,  thoroughly.  He  plunged  headlong  into  an  ever 
lasting  black  pit  of  terror.  He  considered  the  world  through 
the  eyes  of  a  man  sick  unto  death,  and  found  it  without 
health.  Behind  him  lay  his  home,  a  city  without  a  heart,  a 
place  of  pointing  fingers  and  poisoned  tongues;  before  him 
the  brief  path  of  Fear  that  he  must  tread :  his  broken,  sword- 
wide  span  leaping  out  over  the  Abyss  .  .  . 

He  was  anything  but  a  patient  man  at  all  times,  and  any 
thing  but  sane  in  that  dark  hour.  Cold  horror  crawled  in 
his  brain  like  a  delirium  —  horror  of  himself,  of  his  morbid 
flesh,  of  that  moribund  body  unfit  to  sheathe  the  clean  fire 
of  life.  The  thought  of  struggling  to  keep  animate  that  cor 
rupt  Self,  tainted  by  the  breath  of  Death,  was  invincibly 
terrible  to  him.  All  sense  of  human  obligation  disappeared 
from  his  cosmos ;  remained  only  the  biting  hunger  for  eternal 
peace,  rest,  freedom  from  the  bondage  of  existence.  .  .  . 

At  about  four  o'clock  the  train  stopped  to  drop  the  dining- 
car.  Wholly  swayed  by  blind  impulse,  Whitaker  got  up, 
took  his  hand-bag  and  left  the  car. 

On  the  station  platform  he  found  himself  pelted  by  a  pour 
ing  rain.  He  had  left  Town  in  a  sodden  drizzle,  dull  and 
dismal  enough  in  all  conscience ;  here  was  a  downpour  out 
of  a  sky  three  shades  lighter  than  India  ink  —  a  steadfast, 
grim  rain  that  sluiced  the  streets  like  a  gigantic  fire-hose, 
brimming  the  gutters  with  boiling,  muddy  torrents. 

The  last  to  leave  the  train,  he  found  himself  without  a 


20       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

choice  of  conveyances ;  but  one  remained  at  the  edge  of  the 
platform,  an  aged  and  decrepit  four-wheeler  whose  patriarchal 
driver  upon  the  box  might  have  been  Death  himself  mas 
querading  in  dripping  black  oilskins.  To  Whitaker's  inquiry 
he  recommended  the  C'mercial  House.  Whitaker  agreed 
and  imprisoned  himself  in  the  body  of  the  vehicle,  sitting  on 
stained  and  faded,  threadbare  cushions,  in  company  with 
two  distinct  odours,  of  dank  and  musty  upholstery  and  of 
stale  tuberoses.  As  they  rocked  and  crawled  away,  the  blind 
windows  wept  unceasingly,  and  unceasingly  the  rain  drummed 
the  long  roll  on  the  roof. 

In  time  they  stopped  before  a  rambling  structure  whose 
weather-boarded  facade,  white  with  flaking  paint,  bore  the 
legend:  COMMERCIAL  HOUSE.  Whitaker  paid  his  fare 
and,  unassisted,  carried  his  hand-bag  up  the  steps  and 
across  the  rain-swept  veranda  into  a  dim,  cavernous  hall 
whose  walls  were  lined  with  cane-seated  arm-chairs  punctu 
ated  at  every  second  chair  by  a  commodious  brown-fibre 
cuspidor.  A  cubicle  fenced  off  in  one  corner  formed  the 
office  proper  —  for  the  time  being  untenanted.  There  was, 
indeed,  no  one  in  sight  but  a  dejected  hall-boy,  innocent  of 
any  sort  of  livery.  On  demand  he  accommodatingly  disen 
tangled  himself  from  a  chair,  a  cigarette  and  a  paper-backed 
novel,  and  wandered  off  down  a  corridor,  ostensibly  to  un 
earth  the  boss. 

Whitaker  waited  by  the  desk,  a  gaunt,  weary  man,  hag 
ridden  by  fear.  There  was  in  his  mind  a  desolate  picture  of 
the  room  up-stairs  when  he  —  his  soul :  the  imperishable 
essence  of  himself  —  should  have  finished  with  it. 


"MRS.     MORTEN"  21 

At  his  elbow  lay  the  hotel  register,  open  at  a  page  neatly 
.headed  with  a  date  in  red  ink.  An  absence  of  entries  beneath 
the  date-line  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  the  first  guest 
of  the  day.  Near  the  book  was  a  small  wooden  corral  neatly 
partitioned  into  stalls  wherein  were  herded  an  ink-well, 
toothpicks,  matches,  some  stationery,  and  —  severely  by  it 
self  —  a  grim-looking  raw  potato  of  uncertain  age,  splotched 
with  ink  and  wearing  like  horns  two  impaled  penholders. 

Laboriously  prying  loose  one  of  the  latter,  Whitaker 
registered;  but  two-thirds  of  his  name  was  all  he  entered; 
when  it  came  to  "Whitaker,"  his  pen  paused  and  passed  on 
to  write  "Philadelphia"  in  the  residence  column. 

The  thought  came  to  him  that  he  must  be  careful  to  obliter 
ate  all  laundry  marks  on  his  clothing. 

In  his  own  good  time  the  clerk  appeared :  a  surly,  heavy- 
eyed,  loutish  creature  in  clothing  that  suggested  he  had  been 
grievously  misled  by  pictures  in  the  advertising  pages  of 
magazines.  Whitaker  noted,  with  insensate  irritation,  that 
he  wore  his  hair  long  over  one  eye,  his  mouth  ajar,  his  trousers 
high  enough  to  disclose  bony  purple  ankles.  His  welcome 
to  the  incoming  guest  was  comprised  in  an  indifferent  nod  as 
their  eyes  met,  and  a  subsequent  glance  at  the  register  which 
seemed  unaccountably  to  moderate  his  apathy. 

"Mr.  Morton  —  uh ?"  he  inquired. 

Whitaker  nodded  without  words. 

The  youth  shrugged  and  scrawled  an  hieroglyph  after  the 
name.  "Here,  Sammy,"  he  said  to  the  boy  —  "Forty- 
three."  To  Whitaker  he  addressed  the  further  remark: 
"Trunks?" 


22       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"No." 

The  youth  seemed  about  to  expostulate,  but  checked 
when  Whitaker  placed  one  of  his  hundred-dollar  notes  on 
the  counter. 

"  I  think  that'll  cover  my  liability,"  he  said  with  a  signifi 
cance  misinterpreted  by  the  other. 

"  I  ain't  got  enough  change  - 

"That's  all  right;  I'm  in  no  hurry." 

The  eyes  of  the  lout  followed  him  as  he  ascended  the  stairs 
in  the  path  of  Sammy,  who  had  already  disappeared.  An 
noyed,  Whitaker  quickened  his  pace  to  escape  the  stare.  On 
the  second  floor  he  discovered  the  bell-boy  waiting  some 
distance  down  a  long,  darksome  corridor,  indifferently  lighted 
by  a  single  window  at  its  far  end.  As  Whitaker  came  into 
view,  the  boy  thrust  open  the  door,  disappeared  for  an  in 
stant,  and  came  out  minus  the  bag.  Whitaker  gave  him  a 
coin  in  passing  —  an  attention  which  he  acknowledged  by 
pulling  the  door  to  with  a  bang  the  moment  the  guest  had 
entered  the  room.  At  the  same  time  Whitaker  became  aware 
of  a  contretemps. 

The  room  was  of  fair  size,  lighted  by  two  windows  over 
looking  the  tin  roof  of  the  front  veranda.  It  was  furnished 
with  a  large  double  bed  in  the  corner  nearest  the  door  a 
wash-stand,  two  or  three  chairs,  a  bandy-legged  table  with  a 
marble  top ;  and  it  was  tenanted  by  a  woman  in  street  dress. 

She  stood  by  the  wash-stand,  with  her  back  to  the  light, 
her  attitude  one  of  tense  expectancy :  hardly  more  than  a 
silhouette  of  a  figure  moderately  tall  and  very  slight, 
almost  angular  in  its  slenderness.  She  had  Jbeen  holding  a 


"MRS.    MORTEN"  23 

tumbler  in  one  hand,  but  as  Whitaker  appeared  this  slipped 
from  her  fingers ;  there  followed  a  thud  and  a  sound  of  spilt 
liquid  at  her  feet.  Simultaneously  she  cried  out  inarticu 
lately  in  a  voice  at  once  harsh  and  tremulous ;  the  cry  might 
have  been  "You!"  or  "Hugh!"  Whitaker  took  it  for  the 
latter,  and  momentarily  imagined  that  he  had  stumbled  into 
the  presence  of  an  acquaintance.  He  was  pulling  off  his  hat 
and  peering  at  her  shadowed  face  in  an  effort  to  distin 
guish  features  possibly  familiar  to  him,  when  she  moved 
forward  a  pace  or  two,  her  hands  fluttering  out  toward  him, 
then  stopped  as  though  halted  by  a  force  implacable  and 
overpowering. 

" I  thought,"  she  quavered  in  a  stricken  voice  —  "I 
thought  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  my  husband  .  .  .  Mr.  Morton  .  .  . 
the  boy  said  ..." 

Then  her  knees  buckled  under  her,  and  she  plunged  forward 
and  fell  with  a  thump  that  shook  the  walls. 

"I'm  sorry  —  I  beg  pardon,"  Whitaker  stammered 
stupidly  to  ears  that  couldn't  hear.  He  swore  softly  with 
exasperation,  threw  his  hat  to  a  chair  and  dropped  to  his 
knees  beside  the  woman.  It  seemed  as  if  the  high  gods  were 
hardly  playing  fair,  to  throw  a  fainting  woman  on  his  hands 
just  then,  at  a  time  when  he  was  all  preoccupied  with  his 
own  absorbing  tragedy. 

She  lay  with  her  head  naturally  pillowed  on  the  arm  she 
had  instinctively  thrown  out  to  protect  her  face.  He  could 
see  now  that  her  slenderness  was  that  of  youth,  of  a  figure 
undeveloped  and  immature.  Her  profile,  too,  was  young, 
though  it  stood  out  against  the  dark  background  of  the  carpet 


24       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

as  set  and  white  as  a  death-mask.  Indeed,  her  pallor  was  so 
intense  that  a  fear  touched  his  heart,  of  an  accident  more 
serious  than  a  simple  fainting  spell.  Her  respiration  seemed 
entirely  suspended,  and  it  might  have  been  merely  his  fancy 
that  detected  the  least  conceivable  syncopated  pulsation  in 
the  icy  wrist  beneath  his  fingers. 

He  weighed  quickly  half  a  dozen  suggestions.  His  fun 
damental  impulse,  to  call  in  feminine  aid  from  the  staff  of 
the  hotel,  was  promptly  relegated  to  the  status  of  a  last  re 
sort,  as  involving  explanations  which  might  not  seem  ade 
quate  to  the  singular  circumstances ;  besides,  he  entertained 
a  dim,  searching,  intuitive  suspicion  that  possibly  the  girl  her 
self  would  more  cheerfully  dispense  with  explanations  — 
though  he  hardly  knew  why.  .  .  .  He  remembered  that 
people  burned  feathers  in  such  emergencies,  or  else  loosened 
the  lady's  stays  (corsets  plus  a  fainting  fit  equal  stays,  in 
variably,  it  seems).  But  there  weren't  any  feathers  handy, 
•and  —  well,  anyway,  neither  expedient  made  any  real  appeal 
to  his  intelligence.  Besides,  there  were  sensible  things  he 
could  do  to  make  her  more  comfortable  —  chafe  her  hands 
and  administer  stimulants :  things  like  that. 

Even  while  these  thoughts  were  running  through  his  mind, 
he  was  gathering  the  slight  young  body  into  his  arms ;  and 
he  found  it  really  astonishingly  easy  to  rise  and  bear  her  to 
the  bed,  where  he  put  her  down  flat  on  her  back,  without  a 
pillow.  Then  turning  to  his  hand-bag,  he  opened  it  and 
produced  a  small,  leather-bound  flask  of  brandy ;  a  little  of 
which  would  go  far  toward  shattering  her  syncope,  he  fancied. 

It  did,  in  fact;   a  few  drops  between  her  half-parted  lips, 


"MRS.    MORTEN"  25 

and  she  came  to  with  disconcerting  rapidity,  opening  dazed 
eyes  in  the  middle  of  a  spasm  of  coughing.  He  stepped  back, 
stoppering  the  flask. 

"That's  better,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "Now  lie  still  while 
I  fetch  you  a  drink  of  water." 

As  he  turned  to  the  wash-stand  his  foot  struck  the  tumbler 
she  had  dropped.  He  stopped  short,  frowning  down  at  the 
great,  staring,  wet,  yellow  stain  on  the  dingy  and  threadbare 
carpet.  Together  with  this  discovery  he  got  a  whiff  of  an 
acrid-sweet  effluvium  that  spelled  "  Oxalic  Acid  —  Poison " 
as  unmistakably  as  did  the  druggist's  label  on  the  empty 
packet  on  the  wash-stand.  .  .  . 

In  another  moment  he  was  back  at  the  bedside  with  a  clean 
glass  of  water,  which  he  offered  to  the  girl's  lips,  passing  his 
arm  beneath  her  shoulders  and  lifting  her  head  so  that  she 
might  drink. 

She  emptied  the  glass  thirstily. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  almost  roughly  under  the  lash  of 
this  new  fear  —  "  you  didn't  really  drink  any  of  that  stuff, 
did  you?" 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  a  look  of  negation  clouded  by  fear 
and  bewilderment.  Then  she  turned  her  head  away.  Drag 
ging  a  pillow  beneath  it,  he  let  her  down  again. 

"Good,"  he  said  in  accents  meant  to  be  enheartening ; 
"you'll  be  all  right  in  a  moment  or  two." 

Her  colourless  lips  moved  in  a  whisper  he  had  to  bend 
close  to  distinguish. 

"Please  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 


26       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  Please  don't  .  .  .  call  anybody  .  .  .  ''' 

"I  won't.    Don't  worry." 

The  lids  quivered  down  over  her  eyes,  and  her  mouth  was 
wrung  with  anguish.  He  stared,  perplexed.  He  wanted  to 
go  away  quickly,  but  couldn't  gain  his  own  consent  to  do  so. 
She  was  in  no  condition  to  be  left  alone,  this  delicate  and 
fragile  child,  defenceless  and  beset.  It  wasn't  hard  to  con 
jecture  the  hell  of  suffering  she  must  have  endured  before 
coming  to  a  pass  of  such  desperation.  There  were  dull  blue 
shadows  beneath  eyes  red  with  weeping,  a  forlorn  twist  to 
her  thin,  bloodless  lips,  a  pinched  look  of  wretchedness  like 
a  glaze  over  her  unhappy  face,  that  told  too  plain  a  story.  A 
strange  girl,  to  find  in  a  plight  like  hers,  he  thought:  not 
pretty,  but  quite  unusual :  delicate,  sensitive,  high-strung, 
bred  to  the  finer  things  of  life  —  this  last  was  self-evident 
in  the  fine  simplicity  of  her  severely  plain  attire.  Over  her 
hair,  drawn  tight  down  round  her  head,  she  wore  one  of 
those  knitted  motor  caps  which  were  the  fashion  of  that 
day.  Her  shoes  were  still  wet  and  a  trifle  muddy,  her 
coat  and  skirt  more  than  a  trifle  damp,  indicating  that  she 
had  returned  from  a  dash  to  the  drug  store  not  long  before 
Whitaker  arrived. 

A  variety  of  impressions,  these  with  others  less  significant, 
crowded  upon  his  perceptions  in  little  more  than  a  glance. 
For  suddenly  Nature  took  her  in  hand;  she  twisted  upon 
her  side,  as  if  to  escape  his  regard,  and  covered  her  face,  her 
palms  muffling  deep  tearing  sobs  while  waves  of  pent-up 
misery  racked  her  slender  little  body. 

Whitaker  moved  softly  away.  .  .  . 


"MRS.    MORTEN"  «7 

Difficult,  he  found  it,  to  guess  what  to  do ;  more  difficult 
still  to  do  nothing.  His  nerves  were  badly  jangled ;  light- 
footed,  he  wandered  restlessly  to  and  fro,  half  distracted  be 
tween  the  storm  of  weeping  that  beat  gustily  within  the  room 
and  the  deadly  blind  drum  of  the  downpour  on  the  tin  roof 
beyond  the  windows.  Since  that  twilight  hour  in  that  tawdry 
hotel  chamber,  no  one  has  ever  been  able  to  counterfeit  sor 
row  and  remorse  to  Whitaker ;  he  listened  then  to  the  very 
voice  of  utter  Woe. 

Once,  pausing  by  the  centre-table,  he  happened  to  look 
down.  He  saw  a  little  heap  of  the  hotel  writing-paper,  to 
gether  with  envelopes,  a  pen,  a  bottle  of  ink.  Three  of  the 
envelopes  were  sealed  and  superscribed,  and  two  were 
stamped.  The  unstamped  letter  was  addressed  to  the  Pro 
prietor  of  the  Commercial  House. 

Of  the  others,  one  was  directed  to  a  Mr.  C.  W.  Morton  in 
care  of  another  person  at  a  number  on  lower  Sixth  Avenue, 
New  York ;  and  from  this  Whitaker  began  to  understand  the 
singular  manner  of  his  introduction  to  the  wrong  room; 
there's  no  great  difference  between  Morton  and  Morten,  es 
pecially  when  written  carelessly. 

But  the  third  letter  caused  his  eyes  to  widen  considerably. 
It  bore  the  name  of  Thurlow  Ladislas,  Esq.,  and  a  Wall  Street 
address. 

Whitaker's  mouth  shaped  a  still-born  whistle.  He  was  re 
calling  with  surprising  distinctness  the  fragment  of  dialogue 
he  had  overheard  at  his  club  the  previous  afternoon. 


IV 

MRS.   WHITAKER 

HE  lived  through  a  long,  bad  quarter  hour,  his  own  tensed 
nerves  twanging  in  sympathy  with  the  girl's  sobbing  —  like 
telegraph  wires  singing  in  a  gale  —  his  mind  busy  with 
many  thoughts,  thoughts  strangely  new  and  compelling, 
wearing  a  fresh  complexion  that  lacked  altogether  the  colour 
ing  of  self-interest. 

He  mixed  a  weak  draught  of  brandy  and  water  and  re 
turned  to  the  bedside.  The  storm  was  passing  in  convulsive 
gasps  ever  more  widely  spaced,  but  still  the  girl  lay  with  her 
back  to  him. 

"  If  you'll  sit  up  and  try  to  drink  this,"  he  suggested  quietly, 
"I  think  you'll  feel  a  good  deal  better." 

Her  shoulders  moved  spasmodically;  otherwise  he  saw 
no  sign  that  she  heard. 

"  Come  —  please,"  he  begged  gently. 

She  made  an  effort  to  rise,  sat  up  on  the  bed,  dabbed  at 
her  eyes  with  a  sodden  wisp  of  handkerchief,  and  groped 
blindly  for  the  glass.  He  offered  it  to  her  lips. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  whispered  hoarsely. 

He  spoke  of  the  mixture  in  disparaging  terms  as  to  its 
potency,  until  at  length  she  consented  to  swallow  it  —  teeth 
chattering  on  the  rim  of  the  tumbler.  The  effect  was  quickly 
apparent  in  the  colour  that  came  into  her  cheeks,  faint  but 

28 


MRS.    WHITAKER  29 

warm.  He  avoided  looking  directly  at  her,  however,  and 
cast  round  for  the  bell-push,  which  he  presently  Jound  near 
_  the  head  of  the  bed. 

She  moved  quickly  with  alarm. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  she  demanded  in  a  stronger 
voice. 

"Order  you  something  to  eat,"  he  said.  "No  —  please 
don't  object.  You  need  food,  and  I  mean  to  see  you  get  it 
before  I  leave." 

If  she  thought  of  protesting,  the  measured  determination 
in  his  manner  deterred  her.  After  a  moment  she  asked : 

"  Please  —  who  are  you  ?  " 

"My  name  is  Whitaker,"  he  said  —  "Hugh  Morten 
Whitaker. " 

She  repeated  the  name  aloud.  "Haven't  I  heard  of  you ? 
Aren't  you  engaged  to  Alice  Carstairs  ?  " 

"I'm  the  man  you  mean,"  he  said  quietly;  "but  I'm  not 
engaged  to  Alice  Carstairs." 

"Oh  .  .  .  '  Perplexity  clouded  the  eyes  that  followed 
closely  his  every  movement.  "  How  did  you  happen  to  — 
to  find  me  here?" 

"Quite  by  accident,"  he  replied.  "I  didn't  want  to  be 
known,  so  registered  as  Hugh  Morten.  They  mistook  me 
for  your  husband.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  how  long  it  is 
since  you've  had  anything  to  eat  ?" 

She  told  him  :   "Last  night." 

He  suffered  a  sense  of  shame  only  second  to  her  own,  to 
see  the  dull  flush  that  accompanied  her  reply.  His  fingers 
itched  for  the  throat  of  Mr.  C.  W.  Morton,  chauffeur.  Hap- 


30       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

pily  a  knock  at  the  door  distracted  him.  Opening  it  no  wider 
than  necessary  to  communicate  with  the  bell-boy,  he  gave 
him  an  order  for  the  kitchen,  together  with  an  incentive  to 
speed  the  service. 

Closing  the  door,  he  swung  round  to  find  that  the  girl 
had  got  to  her  feet. 

"He  won't  be  long  — "  Whitaker  began  vaguely. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something."  She  faced  him  bravely, 
though  he  refused  the  challenge  of  her  tormented  eyes. 
"I  ...  I  have  no  husband." 

He  bowed  gravely. 

"You're  so  good  to  me  — "  she  faltered. 

"O  —  nothing  !     Let's  not  talk  about  that  now." 

"  I  must  talk  —  you  must  let  me.     You're  so  kind,  I've 
got  to  tell  you.     Won't  you  listen  ?  " 
i    He  had  crossed  to  a  window,  where  he  stood  staring  out. 
"I'd  rather  not,"  he  said  softly,  "but  if  you  prefer  — " 

"I  do  prefer,"  said  the  voice  behind  him.  "I  —  I'm 
Mary  Ladislas." 

"Yes,"  said  Whitaker. 

"  I  ...  I  ran  away  from  home  last  week  —  five  days 
ago  —  to  get  married  to  our  chauffeur,  Charles  Mor 
ton  .  .  ." 

She  stammered. 

"Please  don't  go  on,  if  it  hurts,"  he  begged  without 
looking  round. 

"  I've  got  to  —  I've  got  to  get  it  over  with.  .  .  .  We 
were  at  Southampton,  at  my  father's  summer  home  —  I 
mean,  that's  where  I  ran  away  from.  He  —  Charley  — 


MRS.    WHITAKER  31 

drove  me  over  to  Greenport  and  I  took  the  ferry  there 
and  came  here  to  wait  for  him.  He  went  back  to  New  York 
'in  the  car,  promising  to  join  me  here  as  soon  as  pos 
sible.  ..." 

"And  he  didn't  come,"  Whitaker  wound  up  for  her, 
when  she  faltered. 

"No." 

"And  you  wrote  and  telegraphed,  and  he  didn't  answer." 

"Yes—" 

"How  much  money  of  yours  did  he  take  with  him?" 
Whitaker  pursued. 

There  was  a  brief  pause  of  astonishment.  "What  do 
you  know  about  that?"  she  demanded. 

"I  know  a  good  deal  about  that  type  of  man,"  he  said 
grimly. 

"I  didn't  have  any  money  to  speak  of,  but  I  had  some 
jewellery  —  my  mother's  —  and  he  was  to  take  that  and 
pawn  it  for  money  to  get  married  with." 

"I  see." 

To  his  infinite  relief  the  waiter  interrupted  them.  The 
girl  in  her  turn  went  to  one  of  the  windows,  standing  with 
her  back  to  the  room,  while  Whitaker  admitted  the  man 
with  his  tray.  When  they  were  alone  once  more,  he  fixed 
the  place  and  drew  a  chair  for  her. 

"Everything's  ready,"  he  said  —  and  had  the  sense 
not  to  try  to  make  his  tone  too  cheerful. 

"I  hadn't  finished  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  said  the 
girl,  coming  back  to  him. 

"Will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  wait,"  he  pleaded.     "I 


32       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

think  things  will  seem  —  well,  otherwise  —  when  you've 
had  some  food.' 

"But  I—" 

"Oh,  please  !"  he  begged  with  his  odd,  twisted  smile. 

She  submitted,  head  drooping  and  eyes  downcast.  He 
returned  to  his  window,  rather  wishing  that  he  had  thought 
to  order  for  himself  as  well  as  for  the  girl ;  for  it  was 
suddenly  borne  strongly  in  upon  him  that  he  himself  had 
had  little  enough  to  eat  since  dinner  with  Peter  Stark. 
He  lighted  a  cigarette,  by  way  of  dulling  his  appetite,  and 
then  let  it  smoulder  to  ashes  between  his  fingers,  while 
he  lost  himself  in  profound  speculations,  in  painstaking 
analysis  of  the  girl's  position. 

Subconsciously  he  grew  aware  that  the  storm  was  mod 
erating  perceptibly,  the  sky  breaking.  .  .  . 

"  I've  finished,"  the  girl  announced  at  length. 

"You're  feeling  better?" 

"Stronger,  I  think." 

"Is  there  anything  more  —  ?" 

"  If  you  wouldn't  mind  sitting  down  —  " 

She  had  twisted  her  arm-chair  away  from  the  table. 
Whitaker  took  a  seat  a  little  distance  from  her,  with  a 
keen  glance  appraising  the  change  in  her  condition  and 
finding  it  not  so  marked  as  he  had  hoped.  Still,  she  seemed 
measurably  more  composed  and  mistress  of  her  emotions, 
though  he  had  to  judge  mostly  by  her  voice  and  manner, 
so  dark  was  the  room.  Through  the  shadows  he  could  see 
little  more  than  masses  of  light  and  shade  blocking  in 
the  slender  figure  huddled  in  a  big,  dilapidated  chair  — 


MRS.     WHITAKER  33 

the  pallid  oval  of  her  face,  and  the  darkness  of  her  wide, 
intent,  young  eyes. 

"Don't!"  she  cried  sharply.  "Please  don't  look  at 
me  so  - 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     I  didn't  mean  to  - 

"  It's  only  —  only  that  you  make  me  think  of  what  you 
must  be  thinking  about  me  - 

"I  think  you're  rather  fortunate,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Fortunate!" 

He  shivered  a  little  with  the  chill  bitterness  of  that  cry. 

"You've  had  a  narrow  but  a  wonderfully  lucky  escape." 

"Oh  !  .  .  .     But  I'm  not  glad  ...  I  was  desperate  — 

"I  mean,"  he  interrupted  coolly,  "from  Mr.  Morton. 
The  silver  lining  is,  you're  not  married  to  a  blackguard." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes  !"  she  agreed  passionately. 

"And  you  have  youth,  health,  years  of  life  before  you  !" 

He  sighed  inaudibly  .  .  . 

"You  wouldn't  say  that,  if  you  understood." 

"  There  are  worse  things  to  put  up  with  than  youth  and 
health  and  the  right  to  live." 

"  But  —  how  can  I  live  ?     What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"Have  you  thought  of  going  home  ?" 

"It  isn't  possible." 

"  Have  you  made  sure  of  that  ?  Have  you  written  to 
your  father  —  explained  ?  " 

"  I  sent  him  a  special  delivery  three  days  ago,  and  —  and 
yesterday  a  telegram.  I  knew  it  wouldn't  do  any  good, 
but  I  ...  I  told  him  everything.  He  didn't  answer. 
He  won't,  ever." 


34       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

From  what  Whitaker  knew  of  Thurlow  Ladislas,  he 
felt  this  to  be  too  cruelly  true  to  admit  of  further  argument. 
At  a  loss,  he  fell  silent,  knitting  his  hands  together  as  he 
strove  to  find  other  words  wherewith  to  comfort  and 
reassure  the  girl. 

She  bent  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  head  and  shoulders 
cringing. 

"It  hurts  so!"  she  wailed  .  .  .  "what  people  will 
think  .  .  .  the  shame,  the  bitter,  bitter  shame  of  this ! 
And  yet  I  haven't  any  right  to  complain.  I  deserve  it  all ; 
I've  earned  my  punishment." 

"Oh,  I  say  — !" 

"  But  I  have,  because  —  because  I  didn't  love  him.  I 
didn't  love  him  at  all,  and  I  knew  it,  even  though  I  meant 
to  marry  him.  ..." 

"But,  why  —  in  Heaven's  name ?" 

"Because  I  was  so  lonely  and  .  .  .  misunderstood  and 
unhappy  at  home.  You  don't  know  how  desperately 
unhappy.  .  .  .  No  mother,  never  daring  to  see  my  sister 
(she  ran  away,  too)  .  .  .  my  friendships  at  school  dis 
couraged  .  .  .  nothing  in  life  but  a  great,  empty,  lonesome 
house  and  my  father  to  bully  me  and  make  cruel  fun  of  me 
because  I'm  not  pretty.  .  .  .  That's  why  I  ran  away  with 
a  man  I  didn't  love  —  because  I  wanted  freedom  and 
a  little  happiness." 

"Good  Lord  !"  he  murmured  beneath  his  breath,  awed 
by  the  pitiful,  childish  simplicity  of  her  confession  and  the 
deep  damnation  that  had  waited  upon  her. 

"So  it's  over!"  she  cried  —  "over,  and  I've  learned 


MRS.     WHITAKER  35 

my  lesson,  and  I'm  disgraced  forever,  and  friendless 
and  -" 

"Stop  right  there  !"  he  checked  her  roughly.  "You're 
not  friendless  yet,  and  that  nullifies  all  the  rest.  Be  glad 
you've  had  your  romance  and  learned  your  lesson  — " 

"Please  don't  think  I'm  not  grateful  for  your  kindness," 
she  interrupted.  "  But  the  disgrace  —  that  can't  be 
blotted  out!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  can,"  he  insisted  bluntly.  "  There's  a  way 
I  know  — " 

A  glimmering  of  that  way  had  only  that  instant  let  a 
little  light  in  upon  the  darkness  of  his  solicitous  distress  for 
her.  He  rose  and  began  to  walk  and  think,  hands  clasped 
behind  him,  trying  to  make  what  he  had  in  mind  seem 
right  and  reasonable. 

"You  mean  beg  my  father  to  take  me  back.  I'll  die 
first!" 

"There  mustn't  be  any  more  talk,  or  even  any  thought, 
of  anything  like  that.  I  understand  too  well  to  ask  the 
impossible  of  you.  But  there  is  one  way  out  —  a  per 
fectly  right  way  —  if  you're  willing  and  brave  enough  to 
take  a  chance  —  a  long  chance." 

Somehow  she  seemed  to  gain  hope  of  his  tone.  She  sat 
up,  following  him  with  eyes  that  sought  incredulously  to 
believe. 

"Have  I  any  choice?"  she  asked.  "I'm  desperate 
enough  .  .  ." 

"God  knows,"  he  said,  "you'll  have  to  be  !" 

"Try  me." 


36       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

He  paused,  standing  over  her. 

"Desperate  enough  to  marry  a  man  who's  bound  to 
die  within  six  months  and  leave  you  free  ?  I'm  that  man  : 
the  doctors  give  me  six  months  more  of  life.  I'm  alone  in 
the  world,  with  no  one  dependent  upon  me,  nothing  to  look 
forward  to  but  a  death  that  will  benefit  nobody  —  a  useless 
end  to  a  useless  life.  .  .  .  Will  you  take  my  name  to  free 
yourself  ?  Heaven  my  witness,  you're  welcome  to  it." 

"Oh,"  she  breathed,  aghast,  "what  are  you  saying?" 

"I'm  proposing  marriage,"  he  said,  with  his  quaint,  one 
sided  smile.  "Please  listen  :  I  came  to  this  place  to  make 
a  quick  end  to  my  troubles  —  but  I've  changed  my  mind 
about  that,  now.  What's  happened  in  this  room  has  made 
me  see  that  nobody  has  any  right  to  —  hasten  things.  But 
I  mean  to  leave  the  country  —  immediately  —  and  let 
death  find  me  where  it  will.  I  shall  leave  behind  me  a 
name  and  a  little  money,  neither  of  any  conceivable  use 
to  me.  Will  you  take  them,  employ  them  to  make  your 
life  what  it  was  meant  to  be  ?  It's  a  little  thing,  but  it 
will  make  me  feel  a  lot  more  fit  to  go  out  of  this  world 
-  to  know  I've  left  at  least  one  decent  act  to  mark  my 
memory.  There's  only  this  far-fetched  chance  —  I  may 
live.  It's  a  million-to-one  shot,  but  you've  got  to  bear  it 
in  mind.  But  really  you  can't  lose  — 

"Oh,  stop,  stop  !"  she  implored  him,  half  hysterical. 
"To  think  of  marrying  to  benefit  by  the  death  of  a  man 
like  you  —  !  " 

"You've  no  right  to  look  at  it  that  way."  He  had  a 
wry,  secret  smile  for  his  specious  sophistry.  "You're 


MRS.     WHITAKER  37 

being  asked  to  confer,  not  to  accept,  a  favour.  It's  just 
an  act  of  kindness  to  a  hopeless  man.  I'd  go  mad  if  I 
th'dn't  know  you  were  safe  from  a  recurrence  of  the  folly 
of  this  afternoon." 

"Don't!"  she  cried  —  "don't  tempt  me.  You've  no 
right.  .  .  .  You  don't  know  how  frantic  I  am.  ..." 

"I  do,"  he  countered  frankly.  "I'm  depending  on 
just  that  to  swing  you  to  my  point  of  view.  You've 
got  to  come  to  it.  I  mean  you  shall  marry  me." 

She  stared  up  at  him,  spellbound,  insensibly  yielding 
to  the  domination  of  his  will.  It  was  inevitable.  He  was 
scarcely  less  desperate  than  she  —  and  no  less  overwrought 
and  unstrung;  and  he  was  the  stronger;  in  the  natural 
course  of  things  his  will  could  not  but  prevail.  She  was 
little  more  than  a  child,  accustomed  to  yield  and  go  where 
others  led  or  pointed  out  the  path.  What  resistance  could 
she  offer  to  the  domineering  importunity  of  a  man  of 
full  stature,  arrogant  in  his  strength  and  —  hounded 
by  devils  ?  And  he  in  the  fatuity  of  his  soul  believed 
that  he  was  right,  that  he  was  fighting  for  the  girl's  best 
interests,  fighting  —  and  not  ungenerously  —  to  save  her 
from  the  ravening  consequences  of  her  indiscretion  ! 

The  bald  truth  is,  he  was  hardly  a  responsible  agent : 
distracted  by  the  ravings  of  an  ego  mutinous  in  the  shadow 
of  annihilation,  as  well  as  by  contemplation  of  the  girl's 
wretched  plight,  he  saw  all  things  in  distorted  perspective. 
He  had  his  being  in  a  nightmare  world  of  frightful,  insane 
realities.  He  could  have  conceived  of  nothing  too  terrible 
and  preposterous  to  seem  reasonable  and  right.  ... 


38       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

The  last  trace  of  evening  light  had  faded  out  of  the  world 
before  they  were  agreed.  Darkness  wrapped  them  in 
its  folds ;  they  were  but  as  voices  warring  in  a  black  and 
boundless  void. 

Whitaker  struck  a  match  and  applied  it  to  the  solitary 
gas-jet.  A  thin,  blue,  sputtering  tongue  of  flame  revealed 
them  to  one  another.  The  girl  still  crouched  in  her  arm 
chair,  weary  and  spent,  her  powers  of  contention  all 
vitiated  by  the  losing  struggle.  Whitaker  was  trembling 
with  nervous  fatigue. 

"Well?  "he  demanded. 

"Oh,  have  your  own  way,"  she  said  drearily.  "If  it 
must  be  ..." 

"  It's  for  the  best,"  he  insisted  obstinately.  "  You'll 
never  regret  it." 

"  One  of  us  will  —  either  you  or  I,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  It's  too  one-sided.  You  want  to  give  all  and  ask  nothing 
in  return.  It's  a  fool's  bargain." 

He  hesitated,  stammering  with  surprise.  She  had  a 
habit  of  saying  the  unexpected.  "A  fool's  bargain"  — 
the  wisdom  of  the  sage  from  the  lips  of  a  child.  .  .  . 

"Then  it's  settled,"  he  said,  businesslike,  offering  his 
hand.  "Fool's  bargain  or  not  —  it's  a  bargain." 

She  rose  unassisted,  then  trusted  her  slender  fingers 
to  his  palm.  She  said  nothing.  The  steady  gaze  of  her 
extraordinary  eyes  abashed  him. 

"  Come  along  and  let's  get  it  over,"  he  muttered  clumsily. 
"It's  late,  and  there's  a  train  to  New  York  at  half-past 
ten,  you  might  as  well  catch." 


MRS.    WHITAKER  3£ 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  but  continued  to  regard  him 
steadfastly  with  her  enigmatic,  strange  stare.  "So," 
she  said  coolly,  "that's  settled  too,  I  presume." 

"I'm  afraid  you  couldn't  catch  an  earlier  one,"  he 
evaded.  "  Have  you  any  baggage  ?" 

"  Only  my  suit-case.  It  won't  take  a  minute  to  pack 
that." 

"No  hurry,"  he  mumbled.  .  .  . 

They  left  the  hotel  together.  Whitaker  got  his  change 
of  a  hundred  dollars  at  the  desk — "Mrs.  Morten's"  bill, 
of  course,  included  with  his  —  and  bribed  the  bell-boy 
to  take  the  suit-case  to  the  railway  station  and  leave  it 
there,  together  with  his  own  hand-bag.  Since  he  had  un 
accountably  conceived  a  determination  to  continue  living 
for  a  time,  he  meant  to  seek  out  more  pleasant  accommoda 
tions  for  the  night. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  leaving  a  ragged  sky  of  clouds 
and  stars  in  patches.  The  air  was  warm  and  heavy 
with  wetness.  Sidewalks  glistened  like  black  watered 
silk ;  street  lights  mirrored  themselves  in  fugitive  puddles 
in  the  roadways ;  limbs  of  trees  overhanging  the  sidewalks 
shivered  now  and  again  in  a  half-hearted  breeze,  pelting 
the  wayfarers  with  miniature  showers  of  lukewarm,  scented 
drops. 

Turning  away  from  the  centre  of  the  town,  they 
traversed  slowly  long  streets  of  residences  set  well  back  be 
hind  decent  lawns.  Warm  lamplight  mocked  them  from  a 
hundred  homely  windows.  They  passed  few  people  —  a 
pair  of  lovers;  three  bareheaded  giggling  girls  in  short,, 


40       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

light  frocks  strolling  with  their  arms  round  one  another ;  a 
scattering  of  men  hurrying  home  to  belated  suppers. 

The  girl  lagged  with  weariness.  Awakening  to  this  fact, 
Whitaker  slackened  his  impatient  stride  and  quietly 
slipped  her  arm  through  his. 

"Is  it  much  farther ?"  she  asked. 

"No  —  not  now,"  he  assured  her  with  a  confidence  he 
by  no  means  felt. 

He  was  beginning  to  realize  the  tremendous  difficul 
ties  to  be  overcome.  It  bothered  him  to  scheme  a  way 
to  bring  about  the  marriage  without  attracting  an  appalling 
amount  of  gratuitous  publicity,  in  a  community  as  staid 
and  sober  as  this.  He  who  would  marry  secretly  should 
not  select  a  half-grown  New  England  city  for  his  enter 
prise.  .  .  . 

However,  one  rarely  finds  any  really  insuperable  ob 
stacles  in  the  way  of  an  especially  wrong-headed  project. 

Whitaker,  taking  his  heart  and  his  fate  in  his  hands, 
accosted  a  venerable  gentleman  whom  they  encountered 
as  he  was  on  the  point  of  turning  off  the  sidewalk  to  private 
grounds. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  began. 

The  man  paused  and  turned  upon  them  a  saintly  coun 
tenance  framed  in  hair  like  snow. 

"There  is  something  I  can  do  for  you?"  he  inquired 
with  punctilious  courtesy. 

"If  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  direct  me  to  a  minis 
ter  ...  " 

"I  am  one." 


MRS.     WHI  TAKER  41 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Whitaker.  "We  wish  to  get 
married." 

The  gentleman  looked  from  his  face  to  the  girl's,  then 
moved  aside  from  the  gate.  "This  is  my  home,"  he  ex 
plained.  "Will  you  be  good  enough  to  come  in  ?" 

Conducting  them  to  his  private  study,  he  subjected  them 
to  a  kindly  catechism.  The  girl  said  little,  Whitaker 
taking  upon  himself  the  brunt  of  the  examination.  Ab 
solutely  straightforward  and  intensely  sincere,  he  came 
through  the  ordeal  well,  without  being  obliged  to  disclose 
what  he  preferred  to  keep  secret.  The  minister,  satisfied, 
at  length  called  in  the  town  clerk  by  telephone;  who 
issued  the  license,  pocketed  his  fee,  and,  in  company  with 
the  minister's  wife,  acted  as  witness.  .  .  . 

Whitaker  found  himself  on  his  feet  beside  Mary  Ladislas. 
They  were  being  married.  He  was  shaken  by  a  profound 
amazement.  The  incredible  was  happening  —  with  his 
assistance.  He  heard  his  voice  uttering  responses;  it 
seemed  something  as  foreign  to  him  as  the  voice  of  the 
girl  at  his  side.  He  wondered  stupidly  at  her  calm  —  and 
later,  at  his  own.  It  was  all  preposterously  matter-of-fact 
and,  at  the  same  time,  stupidly  romantic.  He  divined 
obscurely  that  this  thing  was  happening  in  obedience  to 
forces  nameless  and  unknown  to  them,  strange  and  terrific 
forces  that  worked  mysteriously  beyond  their  mortal 
ken.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  droning  of  the  loom  of  the 
Fates.  .  .  . 

And  they  were  man  and  wife.  The  door  had  closed,  the 
gate-latch  clicked  behind  them.  They  were  walking  quietly 


42       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

side  by  side  through  the  scented  night,  they  whom  God 
had  joined  together. 

Man  and  wife !  Bride  and  groom,  already  started  on 
the  strangest,  shortest  of  wedding  journeys  —  from  the 
parsonage  to  the  railroad  station  ! 

Neither  found  anything  to  say.  They  walked  on, 
heels  in  unison  pounding  the  wet  flagstones.  The  night 
was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  wet  grass  and  shrubbery. 
The  sidewalks  were  boldly  patterned  with  a  stencilling 
of  black  leaves  and  a  milky  dappling  of  electric  light.  At 
every  corner  high-swung  arcs  shot  vivid  slants  of  silver- 
blue  radiance  through  the  black  and  green  of  trees. 

These  things  all  printed  themselves  indelibly  upon  the 
tablets  of  his  memory.  .  .  . 

They  arrived  at  the  station.  Whitaker  bought  his 
wife  a  ticket  to  New  York  and  secured  for  her  solitary  use  a 
drawing-room  in  the  sleeper.  When  that  was  accomplished, 
they  had  still  a  good  part  of  an  hour  to  wait.  They  found  a 
bench  on  the  station  platform,  and  sat  down.  Whitaker 
possessed  himself  of  his  wife's  hand-bag  long  enough  to 
furnish  it  with  a  sum  of  money  and  an  old  envelope  bearing 
the  name  and  address  of  his  law  partner.  He  explained 
that  he  would  write  to  Drummond,  who  would  see  to  her 
welfare  as  far  as  she  would  permit  —  issue  her  an  adequate 
monthly  allowance  and  advise  her  when  she  should  have 
become  her  own  mistress  once  more :  in  a  word,  a  widow. 

She  thanked  him  briefly,  quietly,  with  a  constraint  he 
understood  too  well  to  resent. 

People  began  to  gather  upon  the  platform,  to  loiter  about 


MRS.    WHITAKER  43 

and  pass  up  and  down.  Further  conversation  would  have 
been  difficult,  even  if  they  had  found  much  to  say  to  one 
another.  Curiously  or  not,  they  didn't.  They  sat  on  in 
tfioughtful  silence. 

Both,  perhaps,  were  sensible  of  some  relief  when  at 
length  the  train  thundered  in  from  the  East,  breathing 
smoke  and  flame.  Whitaker  helped  his  wife  aboard  and 
interviewed  the  porter  in  her  behalf.  Then  they  had  a 
moment  or  two  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  in  which  to 
consummate  what  was  meant  to  be  their  first  and  last 
parting. 

"You'll  get  in  about  two,"  said  Whitaker.  "Better 
just  slip  across  the  street  to  the  Belmont  for  to-night. 
To-morrow  —  or  the  day  after  —  whenever  you  feel  rested 
—  you  can  find  yourself  more  quiet  quarters." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

He  comprehended  something  of  the  struggle  she  was 
having  with  herself,  and  respected  it.  If  he  had  consulted 
his  own  inclinations,  he  would  have  turned  and  marched 
off  without  another  word.  But  for  her  sake  he  lingered. 
Let  her  have  the  satisfaction  (he  bade  himself)  of  knowing 
that  she  had  done  her  duty  at  their  leave-taking. 

She  caught  him  suddenly  by  the  shoulders  with  both  her 
hands.  Her  eyes  sought  his  with  a  wistful  courage  he  could 
not  but  admire. 

"You  know  I'm  grateful  ..." 

"Don't  think  of  it  that  way  —  though  I'm  glad  you  are." 

"You're  a  good  man,"  she  said  brokenly. 

He  knew  himself  too  well  to  be  able  to  reply. 


44       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"You  mustn't  worry  about  me,  now.  You've  made 
things  easy  for  me.  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  and  ...  I 
shan't  forget  whose  name  I  bear." 

He  muttered  something  to  the  effect  that  he  was  sure 
of  that. 

She  released  his  shoulders  and  stood  back,  searching 
his  face  with  tormented  eyes.  Abruptly  she  offered  him 
her  hand. 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  her  lips  quivering  —  "Good-by, 
good  friend  !" 

He  caught  the  hand,  wrung  it  clumsily  and  painfully 
and  .  .  .  realized  that  the  train  was  in  motion.  He  had 
barely  time  to  get  away.  .  .  . 

He  found  himself  on  the  station  platform,  stupidly 
watching  the  rear  lights  dwindle  down  the  tracks  and 
wondering  whether  or  not  hallucinations  were  a  phase  of 
his  malady.  A  sick  man  often  dreams  strange  dreams.  .  .  . 

A  voice  behind  him,  cool  with  a  trace  of  irony,  observed  : 

"  I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know  just  what  particular  brand 
of  damn'  foolishness  you've  been  indulging  in,  this  time." 

He  whirled  around  to  face  Peter  Stark  —  Peter  quietly 
amused  and  very  much  the  master  of  the  situation. 

"  You  needn't  think,"  said  he,  "  that  you  have  any  chance 
on  earth  of  escaping  my  fond  attentions,  Hugh.  I'll  go 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  after  you,  if  you  won't  let  me  go 
with  you.  I've  fixed  it  up  with  Nelly  to  wait  until  I 
bring  you  home,  a  well  man,  before  we  get  married ;  and 
if  you  refuse  to  be  my  best  man  —  well,  there  won't  be 
any  party.  You  can  make  up  your  mind  to  that." 


WILFUL  MISSING 

IT  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  Whitaker 
allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded ;  fatigue  reenforced 
every  stubborn  argument  of  Peter  Stark's  to  overcome  his 
resistance.  It  was  a  repetition  of  the  episode  of  Mary 
Ladislas  recast  and  rewritten :  the  stronger  will  over 
came  the  admonitions  of  a  saner  judgment.  Whitaker 
gave  in.  "Oh,  have  your  own  way,"  he  said  at  length, 
unconsciously  iterating  the  words  that  had  won  him  a 
bride.  "If  it  must  be  ...  " 

Peter  put  him  to  bed,  watched  over  him  through  the 
night,  and  the  next  morning  carried  him  on  to  New  Bedford, 
where  they  superintended  the  outfitting  of  Peter's  yacht, 
the  Adventuress.  Beyond  drawing  heavily  on  his  bank 
and  sending  Drummond  a  brief  note,  Whitaker  failed 
to  renew  communication  with  his  home.  He  sank  into  a 
state  of  semi-apathetic  content ;  he  thought  little  of  any 
thing  beyond  the  business  of  the  moment ;  the  preparations 
for  what  he  was  pleased  to  term  his  funeral  cruise  ab 
sorbed  him  to  the  exclusion  of  vain  repinings  or  anxiety 
for  the  welfare  of  his  adventitious  wife.  Apparently  his 
sudden  disappearance  had  not  caused  the  least  ripple  on 
the  surface  of  life  in  New  York ;  the  newspapers,  at  all 

45 


46       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

events,  slighted  the  circumstance  unanimously:  to  his 
complete  satisfaction. 

Within  the  week  the  Adventuress  sailed. 

She  was  five  months  out  of  port  before  Whitaker  began 
to  be  conscious  that  he  was  truly  accursed.  There  came  a 
gradual  thickening  of  the  shadows  that  threatened  to 
eclipse  his  existence.  And  then,  one  day  as  they  dined 
with  the  lonely  trader  of  an  isolated  station  in  the  D'Entre- 
casteaux  Islands,  he  fell  from  his  chair  as  if  poleaxed. 
He  regained  consciousness  only  to  shiver  with  the  chill  of 
the  wind  that's  fanned  by  the  wings  of  death.  It  was 
impossible  to  move  him.  The  agonies  of  the  damned 
were  his  when,  with  exquisite  gentleness,  they  lifted  him 
to  a  bed.  .  .  . 

Stark  sailed  in  the  Adventuress  before  sundown  of  the 
same  day,  purposing  to  fetch  a  surgeon  from  Port  Moresby. 
Whitaker  said  a  last  farewell  to  his  friend,  knowing  in 
his  soul  that  they  would  never  meet  again.  Then  he 
composed  himself  to  die  quietly.  But  the  following 
morning  brought  a  hapchance  trading  schooner  to  the 
island,  and  with  it,  in  the  estate  of  supercargo,  a  crapulous 
Scotch  gentleman  who  had  been  a  famous  specialist  of 
London  before  drink  laid  him  by  the  heels.  He  performed 
an  heroic  operation  upon  Whitaker  within  an  hour,  an 
nounced  by  nightfall  that  the  patient  would  recover,  and 
the  next  day  sailed  with  his  ship  to  end  his  days  in  some 
abandoned  Australian  boozing-ken  —  as  Whitaker  learned 
in  Sydney  several  months  later. 

In  the  same  place,  and  at  the  same  time,  he  received  his 


WILFUL    MISSING  47 

first  authentic  news  of  the  fate  of  the  Adventuress.  The 
yacht  had  struck  on  an  uncharted  reef,  in  heavy  weather, 
and  had  foundered  almost  immediately.  Of  her  entire 
company,  a  solitary  sailor  managed  to  cling  to  a  life-raft 
until  picked  up,  a  week  after  the  wreck,  by  a  tramp  steam 
ship  on  whose  decks  he  gasped  out  his  news  and  his  life  in 
the  same  breaths. 

Whitaker  hunted  up  an  account  of  the  disaster  in  the 
files  of  a  local  newspaper.  He  read  that  the  owner,  Peter 
Stark,  Esq.,  and  his  guest,  H.  M.  Whitaker,  Esq.,  both  of 
New  York,  had  gone  down  with  the  vessel.  There  was  also 
a  cable  despatch  from  New  York  detailing  Peter  Stark's 
social  and  financial  prominence  —  evidence  that  the  news 
had  been  cabled  Home.  To  all  who  knew  him  Whitaker 
was  as  dead  as  Peter  Stark. 

Sardonic  irony  of  circumstance,  that  had  robbed  the  sound 
man  of  life  and  bestowed  life  upon  the  moribund !  Con 
templation  wrought  like  a  toxic  drug  upon  Whitaker's 
temper,  until  he  was  raving  drunk  with  the  black  draught 
of  mutiny  against  the  dictates  of  an  Omnipotence  capable 
of  such  hideous  mockeries  of  justice.  The  iron  bit  deep 
into  his  soul  and  left  corrosion  there  .... 

"There  is  a  world  outside  the  one  you  know 

To  which  for  curiousness  'Ell  can't  compare ; 
It  is  the  place  where  wilful  missings  go, 
As  we  can  testify,  for  we  are  there." 

Kipling's  lines  buzzed  through  his  head  more  than  once  in 
the  course  of  the  next  few  years ;  for  he  was  "there."  They 
were  years  of  such  vagabondage  as  only  the  South  Seas  coun- 


48       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

tenance  :  neither  unhappy  nor  very  strenuous,  not  yet  scarred 
by  the  tooth  of  poverty.  Whitaker  had  between  four  and 
five  thousand  dollars  in  traveller's  checks  which  he  con 
verted  into  cash  while  in  Sydney.  Memory  of  the  wreck  of 
the  Adventuress  was  already  fading  from  the  Australian  mind ; 
no  one  dreamed  of  challenging  the  signature  of  a  man  seven 
months  dead.  And  as  certainly  and  as  quietly  as  the  mem 
ory,  Whitaker  faded  away ;  Hugh  Morten  took  his  place, 
and  Sydney  knew  him  no  more,  nor  did  any  other  parts 
wherein  he  had  answered  to  his  rightful  name. 

The  money  stayed  by  him  handsomely.  Thanks  to  a 
strong  constitution  in  a  tough  body  (now  that  its  malig 
nant  demon  was  exorcised)  he  found  it  easy  to  pick  up  a 
living  by  one  means  or  another.  Indeed,  he  played  many 
parts  in  as  many  fields  before  joining  hands  with  a  young 
Englishman  he  had  grown  to  like  and  entering  upon  what 
seemed  a  forlorn  bid  for  fortune.  Thereafter  he  prospered 
amazingly. 

In  those  days  his  anomalous  position  in  the  world  troubled 
him  very  little.  He  was  a  Wilful  Missing  and  a  willing. 
The  new  life  intrigued  him  amazingly;  he  lived  in  open 
air,  in  virgin  country,  wresting  a  fortune  by  main  strength 
from  the  reluctant  grasp  of  Nature.  He  was  one  of  the  first 
two  men  to  find  and  mine  gold  in  paying  quantities  in  the 
Owen  Stanley  country.  .  .  .  Now  that  Peter  Stark  was 
dead,  the  ties  of  interest  and  affection  binding  him  to  America 
were  both  few  and  slender.  His  wife  was  too  abstract  a 
concept,  a  shadow  too  vague  in  his  memory,  to  obtrude 
often  upon  his  reveries.  Indeed,  as  time  went  on,  he  found 


WILFUL    MISSING  49 

it  anything  but  easy  to  recall  much  about  the  physical 
appearance  of  the  woman  he  had  married ;  he  remembered 
chiefly  her  eyes;  she  moved  mistily  across  the  stage  of  a 
single  scene  in  his  history,  an  awkward,  self-conscious, 
unhappy,  childish  phantasm. 

Even  the  consideration  that,  fortified  by  the  report  of  his 
death,  she  might  have  married  again,  failed  to  disturb  either 
his  slumbers  or  his  digestion.  If  that  had  happened,  he 
had  no  objection;  the  tie  that  bound  them  was  the  empti 
est  of  forms  —  in  his  understanding  as  meaningless  and  as 
powerless  to  make  them  one  as  the  printed  license  form  they 
had  been  forced  to  procure  of  the  State  of  Connecticut. 
There  had  been  neither  love  nor  true  union  —  merely  pity 
on  one  side,  apathy  of  despair  on  the  other.  Two  souls  had 
met  in  the  valley  of  the  great  shadow,  had  paused  a  mo 
ment  to  touch  hands,  had  passed  onward,  forever  out  of 
one  another's  ken;  and  that  was  all.  His  "death"  should 
have  put  her  in  command  of  a  fair  competence.  If  she  had 
since  sought  and  found  happiness  with  another  man,  was  there 
any  logical  reason,  or  even  excuse,  for  Whitaker  to  abandon 
his  new  and  pleasant  ways  of  life  in  order  to  return  and 
shatter  hers? 

He  was  self-persuaded  of  his  generosity  toward  the  girl. 

Casuistry  of  the  Wilful  Missing  !  .  .  . 

It's  to  be  feared  he  had  always  a  hard-headed  way  of 
considering  matters  in  the  light  of  equity  as  distinguished 
from  the  light  cf  ethical  or  legal  morality.  This  is  not  to 
be  taken  as  an  attempt  to  defend  the  man,  but  rather  as 
a  statement  of  fact :  even  as  the  context  is  to  be  read  as  an 


account  of  some  things  that  happened  rather  than  as  a 
morality.  .  .  . 

When  at  length  he  did  make  up  his  mind  to  go  Home,  it 
wasn't  because  he  felt  that  duty  called  him ;  plain,  every 
day,  human  curiosity  had  something  to  do  with  his  deter 
mination  — a  desire  to  see  how  New  York  was  managing 
to  get  along  without  him  —  together  with  a  dawning  ap 
prehension  that  there  was  an  uncomfortable  amount  of 
truth  in  the  antiquated  bromidiom  about  the  surprising 
littleness  of  the  world. 

He  was  in  Melbourne  at  that  time,  with  Lynch,  his  part 
ner.  Having  prospered  and  laid  by  a  lump  of  money, 
they  had  planned  to  finance  their  holdings  in  the  tradi 
tional  fashion  —  that  is,  to  let  in  other  people's  money  to 
do  the  work,  while  they  rested  and  possessed  their  souls 
and  drew  dividends  on  a  controlling  interest.  Capital  in 
Melbourne  had  proved  eager  and  approachable;  the  ar 
rangement  they  desired  was  quickly  consummated ;  the  day 
the  papers  were  signed,  Whitaker  passed  old  friends  in  the 
street.  They  were  George  Presbury  and  his  wife  —  Anne 
Forsythe  that  was  —  self-evident  tourists,  looking  the 
town  over  between  steamers.  Presbury,  with  no  thought 
in  his  bumptious  head  of  meeting  Hugh  Whitaker  before  the 
Day  of  Judgment,  looked  at  and  through  him  without  a  hint 
of  recognition ;  but  his  wife  was  another  person  altogether. 
Whitaker  could  not  be  blind  to  the  surprise  and  perplexity 
that  shone  in  her  eyes,  even  though  he  pretended  to  be  blind 
to  her  uncertain  nod ;  long  after  his  back  alone  was  visible  to 
her  he  could  feel  her  inquiring  stare  boring  into  it. 


WILFUL    MISSING  51 

The  incident  made  him  think ;  and  he  remembered  that 
he  was  now  a  man  of  independent  fortune  and  of  newly 
idle  hands  as  well.  After  prolonged  consideration  he  sud 
denly  decided,  told  Lynch  to  look  out  for  his  interests  and 
expect  him  back  when  he  should  see  him,  and  booked  for 
London  by  a  Royal  Mail  boat  —  all  in  half  a  day.  From 
London  Mr.  Hugh  Morten  crossed  immediately  to  New 
York  on  the  Olympic,  landing  in  the  month  of  April  —  nearly 
six  years  to  a  day  from  the  time  he  had  left  his  na 
tive  land. 

He  discovered  a  New  York  almost  wholly  new  —  an  expe 
rience  almost  inevitable,  if  one  insists  on  absenting  one's  self 
even  for  as  little  as  half  a  decade.  Intimations  of  immense 
changes  were  borne  in  upon  Whitaker  while  the  steamer 
worked  up  the  Bay.  The  Singer  Building  was  an  unfamiliar 
sky-mark,  but  not  more  so  than  the  Metropolitan  Tower  and 
the  Woolworth.  The  Olympic  docked  at  an  impressive  steel- 
and-concrete  structure,  new  since  his  day;  and  Whitaker 
narrowly  escaped  a  row  with  a  taxicab  chauffeur  because  the 
fellow  smiled  impertinently  when  directed  to  drive  to  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Hotel. 

A  very  few  hours  added  amazingly  to  the  catalogue  of 
things  that  were  not  as  they  had  been :  a  list  so  extensive 
and  impressive  that  he  made  up  his  mind  to  maintain  his  in 
cognito  for  a  few  days,  until  familiar  with  the  ways  of  his 
home.  He  was  quick  to  perceive  that  he  would  even  have 
to  forget  most  of  the  slang  that  had  been  current  in  his 
time,  in  addition  to  unlearning  all  he  had  picked  up  abroad, 
and  set  himself  with  attentive  ears  pricked  forward  and 


52       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

an  open  mind  to  master  the  new,  strange  tongue  his  coun 
trymen  were  speaking,  if  he  were  to  make  himself  intelli 
gible  to  them  —  and  them  to  him,  for  that  matter. 

So  he  put  up  at  the  Ritz-Carlton,  precisely  as  any  for 
eigner  might  be  expected  to  do,  and  remained  Hugh  Morten 
while  he  prowled  around  the  city  and  found  himself.  Now 
and  again  in  the  course  of  his  wanderings  he  encountered 
well-remembered  faces,  but  always  without  eliciting  the 
slightest  gleam  of  recognition :  circumstances  that  only 
went  to  prove  how  thoroughly  dead  and  buried  he  was  in 
the  estimation  of  his  day  and  generation. 

Nothing,  indeed,  seemed  as  he  remembered  it  except  the 
offerings  in  the  theatres.  He  sat  through  plays  on  three 
successive  nights  that  sent  him  back  to  his  hotel  saddened 
by  the  conviction  that  the  tastes  of  his  fellow-countrymen 
in  the  matter  of  amusements  were  as  enduring  as  adamant  — 
as  long-enduring.  Some  day  (he  prophesied)  New  York  would 
be  finished  and  complete ;  then  would  come  the  final  change  — 
its  name  —  because  it  wouldn't  be  New  York  unless  ever 
changing ;  and  when  that  was  settled,  the  city  would  know 
ease  and,  for  want  of  something  less  material  to  occupy  it, 
begin  to  develop  a  soul  of  its  own  —  together  with  an  in 
clination  for  something  different  in  the  way  of  theatrical 
entertainment. 

But  his  ultimate  and  utter  awakening  to  the  truth  that 
his  home  had  outgrown  him  fell  upon  the  fourth  afternoon 
following  his  return,  when  a  total  but  most  affable  gentle 
man  presented  himself  to  Whitaker's  consideration  with  a 
bogus  name  and  a  genuine  offer  to  purchase  him  a  drink, 


WILFUL    MISSING  53 

and  promptly  attempted  to  enmesh  him  in  a  confidence 
game  that  had  degenerated  into  a  vaudeville  joke  in  the 
days  when  both  of  them  had  worn  knickerbockers.  Gently 
but  firmly  entrusting  the  stranger  to  the  care  of  a  conven 
ient  policeman,  Whitaker  privately  admitted  that  he  was 
outclassed,  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  seek  the  protection 
of  his  friends. 

He  began  with  Drummond.  The  latter,  of  course,  had 
moved  his  offices;  no  doubt  he  had  moved  them  several 
times ;  however  that  may  be,  Whitaker  had  left  him  in  quiet 
and  contracted  quarters  in  Pine  Street;  he  found  him  in 
dependently  established  in  an  imposing  suite  in  the  Wool- 
worth  Building. 

Whitaker  gave  one  of  Mr.  Hugh  Morten's  cards  to  a 
subdued  office-boy.  "Tell  him,"  he  requested,  "that  I 
want  to  see  him  about  a  matter  relating  to  the  estate  of 
Mr.  Whitaker." 

The  boy  dived  through  one  partition-door  and  reap 
peared  by  way  of  another  with  the  deft  certainty  of  a  trained 
pantomime. 

"Says  t'  come  in." 

Whitaker  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  an  ashen- 
iuced  man  of  thirty-five,  who  clutched  the  side  of  his  roll- 
top  desk  as  if  to  save  himself  from  falling. 

"Whitaker  !"  he  gasped.     "My  God  !" 

"Flattered,"  said  Whitaker,  "I'm  sure." 

He  derived  considerable  mischievous  amusement  from 
Drummond's  patent  stupefaction.  It  was  all  so  right  and 
proper  —  as  it  should  have  been.  He  considered  his  an  highly 


54       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

satisfactory  resurrection,  the  sensation  it  created  as  com 
plete,  considered  in  the  relation  of  anticipation  to  fulfilment, 
as  anything  he  had  ever  experienced.  Seldom  does  a 
scene  pass  off  as  one  plans  it;  the  other  parties  thereto 
are  apt  to  spoil  things  by  spouting  spontaneously  their  own 
original  lines,  thus  cheating  one  out  of  a  crushing  retort 
or  cherished  epigram.  But  Drummond  played  up  his  part 
in  a  most  public-spirited  fashion  —  gratifying,  to  say  the 
least. 

It  took  him  some  minutes  to  recover,  Whitaker  standing 
by  and  beaming. 

He  remarked  changes,  changes  as  striking  as  the  improve 
ment  in  Drummond's  fortunes.  Physically  his  ex-partner 
had  gone  off  a  bit;  the  sedentary  life  led  by  the  average 
successful  man  of  business  in  New  York  had  marked  his 
person  unmistakably.  Much  heavier  than  the  man  Whitaker 
remembered,  he  wore  a  thick  and  solid  air  of  good-natured 
prosperity.  The  hair  had  receded  an  inch  or  so  from  his 
forehead.  Only  his  face  seemed  as  it  had  always  been  — 
sharply  handsome  and  strong.  Whitaker  remembered  that 
he  had  always  somewhat  meanly  envied  Drummond  his 
good  looks;  he  himself  had  been  fashioned  after  the  new 
order  of  architecture  —  with  a  steel  frame ;  but  for  some 
reason  Nature,  the  master  builder,  had  neglected  sufficiently 
to  wall  in  and  conceal  the  skeleton.  Admitting  the  econ 
omy  of  the  method,  Whitaker  was  inclined  to  believe  that 
the  effect  must  be  surprising,  especially  if  encountered  with 
out  warning.  .  .  . 

He  discovered  that  they  were  both  talking  at  once  —  f u- 


WILFUL    MISSING  55 

piously  —  and,  not  without  surprise,  that  he  had  a  great 
deal  more  enlightenment  to  impart  to  Drummond  than  he 
had  foreseen. 

'  "You've  got  an  economical  streak  in  you  when  it  comes  to 
correspondence,"  Drummond  commented,  offering  Whitaker 
a  sheet  of  paper  he  had  just  taken  from  a  tin  document-box. 
"That's  Exhibit  A." 
Whitaker  read  aloud : 

"  '  DEAR  D.,  I'm  not  feeling  well,  so  off  for  a  vacation.  Burke 
has  just  been  in  and  paid  $1500  in  settlement  of  our  claim.  I'm 
enclosing  herewith  my  check  for  your  share.  Yours,  H.  M.  W.'  " 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  cast  up,"  said  Drummond;  "but 
I'd  like  to  know  why  the  deuce  you  couldn't  let  a  fellow 
know  how  ill  you  were." 

Whitaker  frowned  over  his  dereliction.  "Don't  remem 
ber,"  he  confessed.  "I  was  hardly  right,  you  know  —  and 
I  presume  I  must  have  counted  on  Greyerson  telling." 

"But  I  don't  know  Greyerson  ..." 

"  That's  so.     And  you  never  heard  —  ?  " 

"  Merely  a  rumour  ran  round.  Some  one  —  I  forget  who 
—  told  me  that  you  and  Stark  had  gone  sailing  in  Stark's 
boat  —  to  cruise  in  the  West  Indies,  according  to  my  in 
formant.  And  somebody  else  mentioned  that  he'd  heard 
you  were  seriously  ill.  More  than  that  nothing  —  until 
we  heard  that  the  Adventuress  had  been  lost,  half  a  year 
later." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Whitaker  contritely.  "  It  was  thought 
less  .  .  ." 

"  But  that  isn't  all,"  Drummond  objected,  flourishing  an- 


56       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

other  paper.  "  See  here  —  Exhibit  B  —  came  in  a  day  or 
so  later." 

"Yes."  Whitaker  recognized  the  document.  "I  remem 
ber  insisting  on  writing  to  you  before  we  turned  in  that  night." 

He  ran  through  the  following  communication : 

"'DEAR  DRUMMOND:  I  married  here,  to-night,  Mary  Ladislas. 
Please  look  out  for  her  while  I'm  away.  Make  her  an  allowance 
out  of  my  money  —  five  hundred  a  month  ought  to  be  enough.  I 
shall  die  intestate,  and  she'll  get  everything  then,  of  course.  She 
has  your  address  and  will  communicate  with  you  as  soon  as  she 
gets  settled  down  in  Town.  I 

"Faithfully  — 

"HUGH  MORTEN  WHITAKER." 

"If  it  hadn't  been  so  much  in  character,"  commented 
Drummond,  "  I'd  Ve  thought  the  thing  a  forgery  —  or  a 
poor  joke.  Knowing  you  as  well  as  I  did,  however  ...  I 
just  sat  back  to  wait  for  word  from  Mrs.  Whitaker.'* 

"And  you  never  heard,  except  that  once  !"  said  Whitaker 
thoughtfully. 

"  Here's  the  sole  and  only  evidence  I  ever  got  to  prove  that 
you  had  told  the  truth." 

Drummond  handed  Whitaker  a  single,  folded  sheet  of  note- 
paper  stamped  with  the  name  of  the  Waldorf-Astoria. 
"CARTER  S.  DRUMMOND,  Esq.,  27  Pine  Street,  City. 

"DEAR  SIR:    I  inclose  herewith  a  bank-note  for  $500,  which  you 
will  be  kind  enough  to  credit  to  the  estate  of  your  late  partner  and 
my  late  husband,  Mr.  Hugh  Morten  Whitaker. 
"Very  truly  yours, 

"MARY  LADISLAS  WHITAKER." 

"Dated,  you  see,  the  day  after  the  report  of  your  death 
was  published  here." 


WILFUL    MISSING  57 

;  "But  why?"  demanded  Whitaker,  dumfounded.   "Whyt" 

"I  infer  she  felt  herself  somehow  honour-bound  by  the  mon 
etary  obligation,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  In  her  understanding 
your  marriage  of  convenience  was  nothing  more  —  a  one 
sided  bargain,  I  think  you  said  she  called  it.  She  couldn't 
consider  herself  wholly  free,  even  though  you  were  dead, 
until  she  had  repaid  this  loan  which  you,  a  stranger,  had  prac 
tically  forced  upon  her  —  if  not  to  you,  to  your  estate." 

"  But  death  cancels  everything  — 

"Not,"  Drummond  reminded  him  with  a  slow  smile, 
"the  obligation  of  a  period  of  decent  mourning  that  de 
volves  upon  a  widow.  Mrs.  Whitaker  may  have  desired  to 
marry  again  immediately.  If  I'm  any  judge  of  human 
nature,  she  argued  that  repayment  of  the  loan  wiped  out 
every  obligation.  Feminine  logic,  perhaps,  but  —  " 

"  Good  Lord  !"  Whitaker  breathed,  appalled  in  the  face 
of  this  contingency  which  had  seemed  so  remote  and  imma 
terial  when  he  was  merely  Hugh  Morten,  bachelor-nomad, 
to  all  who  knew  him  on  the  far  side  of  the  world. 

Drummond  dropped  his  head  upon  his  hand  and  regarded 
his  friend  with  inquisitive  eyes. 

"Looks  as  though  you  may  have  gummed  things  up 
neatly  —  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Whitaker  nodded  in  sombre  abstraction. 

"You  may  not,"  continued  Drummond  with  light  malice, 
"have  been  so  generous,  so  considerate  and  chivalric, 
after  all." 

"Oh,  cut  that !"  growled  Whitaker,  unhappily.  "I  never 
meant  to  come  back." 


58       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Then  why  did  you?" 

"Oh  ...  I  don't  know.  Chiefly  because  I  caught 
Anne  Presbury's  sharp  eyes  on  me  in  Melbourne  —  as  I 
said  a  while  ago.  I  knew  she'd  talk  —  as  she  surely  will 
the  minute  she  gets  back  —  and  I  thought  I  might  as  well 
get  ahead  of  her,  come  home  and  face  the  music  before  any 
body  got  a  chance  to  expose  me.  At  the  worst  —  if  what 
you  suggest  has  really  happened  —  it's  an  open-and-shut 
case ;  no  one's  going  to  blame  the  woman ;  and  it  ought  to 
be  easy  enough  to  secure  a  separation  or  divorce  — 

"  You'd  consent  to  that  ?"   inquired  Drummond   intently. 

"I'm  ready  to  do  anything  she  wishes,  within  the  law." 

"You  leave  it  to  her,  then  ?" 

"  If  I  ever  find  her  —  yes.  It's  the  only  decent  thing  I 
can  do." 

"  How  do  you  figure  that  ?" 

"  I  went  away  a  sick  man  and  a  poor  one ;  I  come  back 
as  sound  as  a  bell,  and  if  not  exactly  a  plutocrat,  at  least 
better  off  than  I  ever  expected  to  be  in  this  life.  .  .  .  To  all 
intents  and  purposes  I  made  her  a  partner  to  a  bargain  she 
disliked;  well,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'm  going  to  hedge  now, 
when  I  look  a  better  matrimonial  risk,  perhaps :  if  she 
still  wants  my  name,  she  can  have  it." 

Drummond  laughed  quietly.  "  If  that's  how  you  feel,"  he 
said,  "I  can  only  give  you  one  piece  of  professional  advice." 

"What's  that?" 

"Find  your  wife." 

After  a  moment  of  puzzled  thought,  Whitaker  admitted 
ruefully:  "You're  right.  There's  the  rub." 


WILFUL    MISSING  59 

"I'm  afraid  you  won't  find  it  an  easy  job.  I  did  my  best 
without  uncovering  a  trace  of  her." 

"You  followed  up  that  letter,  of  course?" 

"I  did  my  best;  but,  my  dear  fellow,  almost  anybody 
with  a  decent  appearance  can  manage  to  write  a  note  on 
Waldorf  stationery.  I  made  sure  of  one  thing  —  the  man 
agement  knew  nothing  of  the  writer  under  either  her  maiden 
name  or  yours." 

"  Did  you  try  old  Thurlow  ?" 

"  Her  father  died  within  eight  weeks  from  the  time  you 
ran  away.  He  left  everything  to  charity,  by  the  way. 
Unforgiving  blighter." 

"Well,  there's  her  sister,  Mrs.  Pettit." 

"She  heard  of  the  marriage  first  through  me,"  asserted 
Drummond.  "Your  wife  had  never  come  near  her  —  nor 
even  sent  her  a  line.  She  could  give  me  no  information 
whatever." 

"  You  don't  think  she  purposely  misled  you  —  ?" 

"Frankly  I  don't.  She  seemed  sincerely  worried,  when 
we  talked  the  matter  over,  and  spoke  in  a  most  convincing 
way  of  her  fruitless  attempts  to  trace  the  young  woman 
through  a  private  detective  agency." 

"Still,  she  may  know  now,"  Whitaker  said  doubtfully. 
"She  may  have  heard  something  since.  I'll  have  a  word 
with  her  myself." 

"Address,"  observed  Drummond,  dryly:  "the  American 
Embassy,  Berlin.  .  .  .  Pettit's  got  some  sort  of  a  minor 
diplomatic  berth  over  there." 

"0  the  devil!  .  .  .     But,  anyway,  I  can  write." 


60       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Think  it  over,"  Drummond  advised.  "Maybe  it  might 
be  kinder  not  to." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  — " 

"  You've  given  me  to  understand  you  were  pretty  comfy  on 
the  other  side  of  the  globe.  Why  not  let  sleeping  dogs  lie  ?" 

"  It's  the  lie  that  bothers  me  —  the  living  lie.  It  isn't 
fair  to  her." 

"  Rather  sudden,  this  solicitude  —  what  ?"  Drummond 
asked  with  open  sarcasm. 

"I  daresay  it  does  look  that  way.  But  I  can't  see  that 
it's  the  decent  thing  for  me  to  let  things  slide  any  longer. 
I've  got  to  try  to  find  her.  She  may  be  ill  —  destitute  — 
in  desperate  trouble  again  - 

Drummond's  eyebrows  went  up  whimsically.  "You 
surely  don't  mean  me  to  infer  that  your  affections  are  in 
volved?" 

This  brought  Whitaker  up  standing.  "  Good  heavens  — 
no !"  he  cried.  He  moved  to  a  window  and  stared  rudely 
at  the  Post  Office  Building  for  a  time.  "I'm  going  to  find 
her  just  the  same  —  if  she  still  lives,"  he  announced,  turn 
ing  back. 

"Would  you  know  her  if  you  saw  her  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  Whitaker  frowned  with  annoyance. 
"She's  six  years  older - 

"A  woman  often  develops  and  changes  amazingly  be 
tween  the  ages  of  eighteen  and  twenty-four." 

"I  know,"  Whitaker  acknowledged  with  dejection. 

"Well,  but  what  was  she  like?"  Drummond  pursued 
curiously. 


WILFUL    MISSING  61 

Whitaker  shook  his  head.  "It's  not  easy  to  remember. 
Matter  of  fact,  I  don't  believe  I  ever  got  one  good  square 
look  at  her.  It  was  twilight  in  the  hotel,  when  I  found  her ; 
we  sat  talking  in  absolute  darkness,  toward  the  end;  even 
in  the  minister's  study  there  was  only  a  green-shaded  lamp 
on  the  table ;  and  on  the  train  —  well,  we  were  both  too 
much  worked  up,  I  fancy,  to  pay  much  attention  to  details." 

"Then  you  really  haven't  any  idea  —  ?" 

"Oh,  hardly."  Whitaker's  thin  brown  hand  gesticulated 
vaguely.  "She  was  tall,  slender,  pale,  at  the  awkward 
age  .  .  ." 

"Blonde  or  brune?" 

"I  swear  I  don't  know.  She  wore  one  of  those  funny 
knitted  caps,  tight  down  over  her  hair,  all  the  time." 

Drummond  laughed  quietly.  "Rather  an  inconclusive 
description,  especially  if  you  advertise.  'Wanted:  the 
wife  I  married  six  years  ago  and  haven't  seen  since;  tall, 
slender,  pale,  at  the  awkward  age ;  wore  one  of  those  funny 
knit  —  '" 

"  I  don't  feel  in  a  joking  humour,"  Whitaker  interrupted 
roughly.  "It's  a  serious  matter  and  wants  serious  treat 
ment.  .  .  .  What  else  have  we  got  to  mull  over?" 

Drummond  shrugged  suavely.  "There's  enough  to  keep 
us  busy  for  several  hours,"  he  said.  "For  instance,  there's 
my  stewardship." 

"Your  which?" 

"  My  care  of  your  property.  You  left  a  good  deal  of  money 
and  securities  lying  round  loose,  you  know;  naturally  I 
felt  obliged  to  look  after  'em.  There  was  no  telling  when 


62       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Widow  Whitaker  might  walk  in  and  demand  an  accounting. 
I  presume  we  might  as  well  run  over  the  account  —  though 
it  is  getting  late." 

"Half-past  four,"  Whitaker  informed  him,  consulting  his 
watch.  "Take  too  long  for  to-day.  Some  other  time." 

"To-morrow  suit  you?" 

"To-morrow's  Sunday,"  WTiitaker  objected.  "But  there's 
no  hurry  at  all." 

Drummond's  reply  was  postponed  by  the  office  boy,  who 
popped  in  on  the  heels  of  a  light  knock. 

"Mr.  Max's  outside,"  he  announced. 

"O  the  deuce!"  The  exclamation  seemed  to  escape 
Drummond's  lips  involuntarily.  He  tightened  them  an 
grily,  as  though  regretting  the  lapse  of  self-control,  and 
glanced  hurriedly  askance  to  see  if  Whitaker  had  noticed. 
"I'm  busy,"  he  added,  a  trace  sullenly.  "Tell  him  I've 
gone  out." 

"But  he's  got  'nappointment,"  the  boy  protested.  "And 
besides,  I  told  him  you  was  in." 

"You  needn't  fob  him  off  on  my  account,"  Whitaker 
interposed.  "  We  can  finish  our  confab  later  —  Monday  — 
any  time.  It's  time  for  me  to  be  getting  up-town,  anyway." 

"It  isn't  that,"  Drummond  explained  doggedly. 
"Only  —  the  man's  a  bore,  and  —  " 

"It  isn't  Jules  Max?"  Whitaker  demanded  excitedly. 
"Not  little  Jules  Max,  who  used  to  stage  manage  our  ama 
teur  shows  ?  " 

"That's  the  man,"  Drummond  admitted  with  plain  re 
luctance. 


WILFUL    MISSING  63 

"Then  have  him  in,  by  all  means.  I  want  to  say  howdy 
to  him,  if  nothing  more.  And  then  I'll  clear  out  and  leave 
you  to  his  troubles." 

Drummond  hesitated ;  whereupon  the  office  boy,  inter 
preting  assent,  precipitately  vanished  to  usher  in  the  client. 
His  employer  laughed  a  trifle  sourly. 

"Ben's  a  little  too  keen  about  pleasing  Max,"  he  said. 
"I  think  he  looks  on  him  as  the  fountainhead  of  free  seats. 
Max  has  developed  into  a  heavy-weight  entrepreneur,  you 
know." 

"  Meaning  theatrical  manager  ?  Then  why  not  say  so  ? 
But  I  might' ve  guessed  he'd  drift  into  something  of  the  sort." 

A  moment  later  Whitaker  was  vigorously  pumping  the 
unresisting  —  indeed  the  apparently  boneless  —  hand  of  a 
visibly  flabbergasted  gentleman,  who  suffered  him  for  the 
moment  solely  upon  suspicion,  if  his  expression  were  a  re 
liable  index  of  his  emotion. 

In  the  heyday  of  his  career  as  a  cunning  and  success 
ful  promoter  of  plays  and  players,  Jules  Max  indulged  a 
hankering  for  the  picturesquely  eccentric  that  sat  oddly 
upon  his  commonplace  personality.  The  hat  that  had 
made  Hammerstein  famous  Max  had  appropriated  - 
straight  crown,  flat  brim  and  immaculate  gloss  —  bodily. 
Beneath  it  his  face  was  small  of  feature,  and  fat.  Its  trim 
little  mustache  lent  it  an  air  of  conventionality  curiously 
at  war  with  a  pince-nez  which  sheltered  his  near-sighted 
eyes,  its  enormous,  round,  horn-rimmed  lenses  sagging  to 
one  side  with  the  weight  of  a  wide  black  ribbon.  His  nose 
was  insignificant,  his  mouth  small  and  pursy.  His  short, 


64       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

round  little  body  was  invariably  by  day  dressed  in  a  dark 
gray  morning-coat,  white-edged  waistcoat,  assertively-striped 
trousers,  and  patent-leather  shoes  with  white  spats.  He 
had  a  passion  for  lemon-coloured  gloves  of  thinnest  kid  and 
slender  malacca  walking-sticks.  His  dignity  was  an  awful 
thing,  as  ingrained  as  his  strut. 

He  reasserted  the  dignity  now  with  a  jerk  of  his  maltreated 
hand,  as  well  as  with  an  appreciable  effort  betrayed  by  his 
resentful  glare. 

"Do  I  know  you?"  he  demanded  haughtily.  "If  not, 
what  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  such  conduct,  sir?" 

With  a  laugh,  Whitaker  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and 
spun  him  round  smartly  into  a  convenient  chair. 

"  Sit  still  and  let  me  get  a  good  look,"  he  implored.  "  Think 
of  it !  Juley  Max  daring  to  put  on  side  with  me  !  The  im 
pudence  of  you,  Juley  !  I've  a  great  mind  to  play  horse 
with  you.  How  dare  you  go  round  the  streets  looking  like 
that,  anyway?" 

Max  recovered  his  breath,  readjusted  his  glasses,  and  re 
sumed  his  stare. 

"Either,"  he  observed,  "you're  Hugh  Whitaker  come  to 
life  or  a  damned  outrage." 

"  Both,  if  you  like." 

"You  sound  like  both,"  complained  the  little  man. 
"Anyway,  you  were  drowned  in  the  Philippines  or  some 
where  long  ago,  and  I  never  waste  time  on  a  dead  one.  .  .  . 
Drummond  —  "  He  turned  to  the  lawyer  with  a  vastly 
business-like  air. 

"No,  you  don't!"   Whitaker  insisted,   putting  himself 


WILFUL    MISSING  65 

between  the  two  men.     "  I  admit  that  you're  a  great  man ; 
you  might  at  least  admit  that  I'm  a  live  one." 

A  mollified  smile  moderated  the  small  man's  manner. 
"That's  a  bargain,"  he  said,  extending  a  pale  yellow  paw; 
"I'm  glad  to  see  you  again,  Hugh.  When  did  you  re 
crudesce  ?  " 

"An  hour  ago/'  Drummond  answered  for  him;  "blew  in 
here  as  large  as  life  and  twice  as  important.  He's  been 
running  a  gold  farm  out  in  New  Guinea.  What  do  you  know 
about  that?" 

"It's  very  interesting,"  Max  conceded.  "I  shall  have  to 
cultivate  him ;  I  never  neglect  a  man  with  money.  If 
you'll  stick  around  a  few  minutes,  Hugh,  I'll  take  you 
up-town  in  my  car."  He  turned  to  Drummond,  completely 
ignoring  Whitaker  while  he  went  into  the  details  of  some 
action  he  desired  the  lawyer  to  undertake  on  his  behalf. 
Then,  having  talked  steadily  for  upwards  of  ten  minutes, 
he  rose  and  prepared  to  go. 

"You've  asked  him,  of  course?"  he  demanded  of  Drum 
mond,  nodding  toward  Whitaker. 

i|    Drummond    flushed    slightly.     "No    chance,"    he    said. 
*'I  was  on  the  point  of  doing  it  when  you  butted  in." 

"What's  this?"    inquired  Whitaker. 

Max  delivered  himself  of  a  startling  bit  of  information : 
"He's  going  to  get  married." 

Whitaker    stared.     "Drummond?    Not  really?" 

Drummond  acknowledged  his  guilt  brazenly:  "Next 
week,  in  fact." 

"But  why  didn't  you  say  anything  about  it  ?" 


66       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"You  didn't  give  me  an  opening.  Besides,  to  welcome 
a  deserter  from  the  Great  Beyond  is  enough  to  drive  all 
other  thoughts  from  a  man's  mind." 

'  There's  to  be  a  supper  in  honour  of  the  circumstances, 
at  the  Beaux  Arts  to-night,"  supplemented  Max.  "You'll 
come,  of  course." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  keep  me  away  with  a  dog  ?" 

"Wouldn't  risk  spoiling  the  dog,"  said  Drummond. 
He  added  with  a  tentative,  questioning  air:  "There'll 
be  a  lot  of  old-time  acquaintances  of  yours  there,  you 
know." 

"So  much  the  better,"  Whitaker  declared  with  spirit. 
"I've  played  dead  long  enough." 

"As  you  think  best,"  the  lawyer  acceded.  "Midnight, 
then  —  the  Beaux  Arts." 

"I'll  be  there  —  and  furthermore,  I'll  be  waiting  at 
the  church  a  week  hence  —  or  whenever  it's  to  come  off. 
And  now  I  want  to  congratulate  you."  Whitaker  held 
Drummond's  hand  in  one  of  those  long,  hard  grips  that 
mean  much  between  men.  "But  mostly  I  want  to  con 
gratulate  her.  Who  is  she?" 

"Sara  Law,"  said  Drummond,  with  pride  in  his  quick 
color  and  the  lift  of  his  chin. 

"Sara  Law?"  The  name  had  a  familiar  ring,  yet 
WThitaker  failed  to  recognize  it  promptly. 

"The  greatest  living  actress  on  the  English-speaking 
stage,"  Max  announced,  preening  himself  importantly. 
"My  own  discovery." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  haven't  heard  of  her.     Is 


WILFUL    MISSING  67 

New  Guinea,  then,  so  utterly  abandoned  to  the  march  of 
civilization  ?" 

"Of  course  I've  heard  —  but  I  have  been  out  of  touch 
with  such  things,"  Whitaker  apologized.  "When  shall 
I  see  her?" 

"At  supper,  to-night,"  said  the  man  of  law.  "It's  really 
in  her  honour  — 

"  In  honour  of  her  retirement,"  Max  interrupted,  fussing 
with  a  gardenia  on  his  lapel.  "She  retires  from  the  stage 
finally,  and  forever  —  she  says  —  when  the  curtain  falls 
to-night." 

"Then  I've  got  to  be  in  the  theatre  to-night — if  that's 
the  case,"  said  Whitaker.  "It  isn't  my  notion  of  an  occa 
sion  to  miss." 

"You're  right  there,"  Max  told  him  bluntly.  "It's 
no  small  matter  to  me  —  losing  such  a  star ;  but  the 
world's  loss  of  its  greatest  artist  —  ah!"  He  kissed  his 
finger-tips  and  ecstatically  flirted  the  caress  afar. 

"'Fraid  you  won't  get  in,  though,"  Drummond  doubted 
darkly.  "Everything  in  the  house  for  this  final  week  was 
sold  out  a  month  ago.  Even  the  speculators  are  cleaned 
out." 

"Tut!"  the  manager  reproved  him  loftily.  "Hugh  is 
going  to  see  Sara  Law  act  for  the  last  time  from  my 
personal  box  —  aren't  you,  Hugh  ?" 

"You  bet  I  am  !"  Whitaker  asserted  with  conviction. 

"Then  come  along."  Max  caught  him  by  the  arm  and 
started  for  the  door.  "So  long,  Drummond  ..." 


VI 

CURTAIN 

NOTHING  would  satisfy  Max  but  that  Whitaker  should 
dine  with  him.  He  consented  to  drop  him  at  the  Ritz-Carl- 
ton,  in  order  that  he  might  dress,  only  on  the  condition  that 
Whitaker  would  meet  him  at  seven,  in  the  white  room  at 
the  Knickerbocker. 

"Just  mention  my  name  to  the  head  waiter,"  he  said 
with  magnificence;  "or  if  I'm  there  first,  you  can't  help 
seeing  me.  Everybody  knows  my  table  —  the  little  one 
in  the  southeast  corner." 

Whitaker  promised,  suppressing  a  smile;  evidently  the 
hat  was  not  the  only  peculiarity  of  Mr.  Hammerstein's  that 
Max  had  boldly  made  his  own. 

Max  surprised  him  by  a  shrewd  divination  of  his  thoughts. 
"I  know  what  you're  thinking,"  he  volunteered  with 
an  intensely  serious  expression  shadowing  his  pudgy 
countenance;  "but  really,  my  dear  fellow,  it's  good 
business.  You  get  people  into  the  habit  of  saying,  'There's 
Max's  table,'  and  you  likewise  get  them  into  the  habit 
of  thinking  of  Max's  theatre  and  Max's  stars.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I'm  merely  running  an  immense  advertising 
plant  with  a  dramatic  annex." 

"You  are  an  immense  advertisement  all  by  your  lone- 

68 


CURTAIN  69 

some,"  Whitaker  agreed  with  a  tolerant  laugh,  rising  as 
the  car  paused  at  the  entrance  of  the  Ritz. 

"Seven  o'clock  —  you  won't  fail  me?"  Max  persisted. 
"Really,  you  know,  I'm  doing  you  an  immense  favour  — 
dinner  —  a  seat  in  my  private  box  at  Sara  Law's  fare 
well  performance  - 

"Oh,  I'm  thoroughly  impressed,"  Whitaker  assured 
him,  stepping  out  of  the  car.  "  But  tell  me  —  on  the  level, 
now  —  why  this  staggering  condescension  ?  " 

Max  looked  him  over  as  he  paused  on  the  sidewalk,  a 
tall,  loosely  built  figure  attired  impeccably  yet  with  an 
elusive  sense  of  carelessness,  his  head  on  one  side  and  a 
twinkle  of  amusement  in  his  eyes.  The  twinkle  was 
momentarily  reflected  in  the  managerial  gaze  as  he  replied 
with  an  air  of  impulsive  candour:  "One  never  can  tell 
when  the  most  unlikely-looking  material  may  prove  use 
ful.  I  may  want  to  borrow  money  from  you  before  long. 
If  I  put  you  under  sufficient  obligation  to  me,  you  can't  well 
refuse.  .  .  .  Shoot,  James  ! " 

The  latter  phrase  was  Max's  way  of  ordering  the  driver 
to  move  on.  The  car  snorted  resentfully,  then  pulled 
smoothly  and  swiftly  away.  Max  waved  a  jaunty  farewell 
with  a  lemon-coloured  hand,  over  the  back  of  the  tonneau. 

Whitaker  went  up  to  his  room  in  a  reflective  mood  in 
which  the  theatrical  man  had  little  place,  and  began 
leisurely  to  prepare  his  person  for  ceremonious  clothing  — 
preparations  which,  at  first,  consisted  in  nothing  more 
strenuous  than  finding  a  pipe  and  sitting  down  to  stare 
out  of  the  window.  He  was  in  no  hurry  —  he  had  still 


70       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

an  hour  and  a  half  before  he  was  due  at  the  Knickerbocker 
—  and  the  afternoon's  employment  had  furnished  him  with 
a  great  deal  of  material  to  stimulate  his  thoughts. 

Since  his  arrival  in  New  York  he  had  fallen  into  the  habit 
of  seeking  the  view  from  his  window  when  in  meditative 
humour.  The  vast  sweep  of  gullied  roofs  exerted  an  almost 
hypnotic  attraction  for  his  eyes.  They  ranged  southward 
to  the  point  where  vision  failed  against  the  false  horizon 
of  dull  amber  haze.  Late  sunlight  threw  level  rays  athwart 
the  town,  gilding  towering  westerly  walls  and  striking 
fire  from  all  their  windows.  Between  them  like  deep  blue 
crevasses  ran  the  gridironed  streets.  The  air  was  moveless, 
yet  sonorously  thrilled  with  the  measured  movement  of 
the  city's  symphonic  roar.  Above  the  golden  haze  a 
drift  of  light  cloud  was  burning  an  ever  deeper  pink 
against  the  vault  of  robin's-egg  blue. 

A  view  of  ten  thousand  roofs,  inexpressibly  enchaining. 
.  .  .  Somewhere  —  perhaps  —  in  that  welter  of  steel  and 
stone,  as  eternal  and  as  restless  as  the  sea,  was  the  woman 
Whitaker  had  married,  working  out  her  lonely  destiny.  A 
haphazard  biscuit  tossed  from  his  window  might  fall 
upon  the  very  roof  that  sheltered  her :  he  might  search  for 
a  hundred  years  and  never  cross  her  path. 

He  wondered.  .  .  . 

More  practically  he  reminded  himself  not  to  forget 
to  write  to  Mrs.  Pettit.  He  must  try  to  get  the  name  of 
the  firm  of  private  detectives  she  had  employed,  and  her 
permission  to  pump  them ;  it  might  help  him,  to  learn  the 
quarters  wherein  they  had  failed. 


CURTAIN  71 

And  he  must  make  an  early  opportunity  to  question 
Drummond  more  closely ;  not  that  he  anticipated  that 
Drummond  knew  anything  more  than  he  had  already  dis- 
"•  —closed  —  anything  really  helpful  at  all  events. 

His  thoughts  shifted  to  dwell  temporarily  on  the  two 
personalities  newly  introduced  into  his  cosmos,  strikingly 
new,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  had  been  so  well  known  to 
him  of  old.  He  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that  he  seemed 
to  them  as  singularly  metamorphosed  as  they  seemed  to 
him  —  superficially  if  not  integrally.  He  had  lost  alto 
gether  the  trick  of  thinking  in  their  grooves,  and  yet  they 
seemed  very  human  to  him.  He  thought  they  supple 
mented  one  another  somewhat  weirdly :  each  was  at 
bottom  what  the  other  seemed  to  be.  Beneath  his  assump 
tion,  for  purposes  of  revenue  only,  of  outrageous  eccen 
tricities,  Jules  Max  was  as  bourgeois  as  Cesar  Birotteau; 
beneath  his  assumption  of  the  steady-going,  keen,  alert 
and  conservative  man  of  affairs,  Drummond  was  as  ro 
mantic  as  D'Artagnan.  But  Max  had  this  advantage 
of  Drummond  :  he  was  not  his  own  dupe  ;  whereas  Drum 
mond  would  go  to  his  grave  believing  himself  bored  to 
extinction  by  the  commonplaceness  of  his  fantastical 
self.  .  .  . 

Irresponsibly,  his  reverie  reembraced  the  memory  he 
had  of  the  woman  who  alone  held  the  key  to  his  matri 
monial  entanglement.  The  business  bound  his  imagina 
tion  with  an  ineluctable  fascination.  No  matter  how  far 
his  thoughts  wandered,  they  were  sure  to  return  to  beat 
themselves  to  weariness  against  that  hard-faced  mystery, 


72       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

like  moths  bewitched  by  the  light  behind  a  clouded  win 
dow-glass.  It  was  very  curious  (he  thought)  that  he  could 
be  so  indifferent  and  so  interested  at  one  and  the  same  time. 
The  possibility  that  she  might  have  married  a  second  time 
did  not  disturb  his  pulse  by  the  least  fraction  of  a  beat. 
He  even  contemplated  the  chance  that  she  might  be  dead 
with  normal  equanimity.  Fortunate,  that  he  didn't  love 
her.  More  fortunate  still,  that  he  loved  no  one  else. 

It  occurred  to  him  suddenly  that  it  would  take  a  long 
time  for  a  letter  to  elicit  information  from  Berlin. 

Incontinently  he  wrote  and  despatched  a  long,  extrava 
gant  cablegram  to  Mrs.  Pettit  in  care  of  the  American 
Embassy,  little  doubting  that  she  would  immediately 
answer. 

Then  he  set  wrhole-heartedly  about  the  business  of  mak 
ing  himself  presentable  for  the  evening. 

When  eventually  he  strode  into  the  white  room,  Max  was 
already  established  at  the  famous  little  table  in  the  south 
east  corner.  Whitaker  was  conscious  of  turning  heads 
and  guarded  comment  as  he  took  his  place  opposite  the 
little  fat  man. 

"Make  you  famous  in  a  night,"  Max  assured  him 
importantly.  "Don't  happen  to  need  any  notoriety,  do 
you?" 

"No,  thanks." 

"Dine  with  me  here  three  nights  hand-running  and 
they'll  let  you  into  the  Syndicate  by  the  back  door 
without  even  asking  your  name.  P.T.A.'s  one  grand  little 
motto,  my  boy." 


CURTAIN  73 

"P.T.A.?" 

"Pays  to  advertise.  Paste  that  in  your  hat,  keep 
your  head  small  enough  to  wear  it,  and  don't  givadam  if 
folks  do  think  you're  an  addle-pated  village  cut-up,  and 
you'll  have  this  town  at  heel  like  a  good  dog  as  long  as 
-  well,"  Max  wound  up  with  a  short  laugh,  "as  long  as 
your  luck  lasts." 

"  Yours  seems  to  be  pretty  healthy  —  no  signs  of  going 
into  a  premature  decline." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Max  gloomily.     "  Seems  ! " 

With  a  morose  manner  he  devoted  himself  to  his  soup. 

"Look  me  over,"  he  requested  abruptly,  leaning  back. 
"I  guess  I'm  some  giddy  young  buck,  what?" 

Whitaker  reviewed  the  striking  effect  Max  had  created 
by  encasing  his  brief  neck  and  double  chin  in  an  old- 
fashioned  high  collar  and  black  silk  stock,  beneath  which 
his  important  chest  was  protected  by  an  elaborately 
frilled  shirt  decorated  with  black  pearl  studs.  His  waist 
was  strapped  in  by  a  pique  waistcoat  edged  with  black, 
and  there  was  a  distinctly  perceptible  "invisible"  stripe 
in  the  material  of  his  evening  coat  and  trousers. 

"Dressed  up  like  a  fool,"  Max  summed  up  the  ensemble 
before  his  guest  could  speak.  "Would  you  believe  that 
despair  could  gnaw  at  the  vitals  of  any  one  as  wonder 
fully  arrayed?" 

"I  would  not,"  Whitaker  asserted. 

"Nobody  would,"  said  Max  mournfully.  "And  yet, 
'tis  true." 

"Meaning  —  ?" 


74       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Oh,  I'm  just  down  in  the  mouth  because  this  is  Sara's 
last  appearance."  Max  motioned  the  waiter  to  remove 
the  debris  of  a  course.  "I'm  as  superstitious  as  any 
trouper  in  the  profession.  I've  got  it  in  my  knob  that 
she's  my  mascot.  If  she  leaves  me,  my  luck  goes  with 
her.  I  never  had  any  luck  until  she  came  under  my 
management,  and  I  don't  expect  to  have  any  after  she 
retires.  I  made  her,  all  right,  but  she  made  me,  too ;  and 
it  sprains  my  sense  of  good  business  to  break  up  a  paying 
combination  like  that." 

"Nonsense,"  Whitaker  contended  warmly.  "If  I'm 
not  mistaken,  you  were  telling  me  this  afternoon  that  you 
stand  next  to  Belasco  as  a  producing  manager.  The  loss 
of  one  star  isn't  going  to  rob  you  of  that  prestige,  is  it  ?  " 

"You  never  can  tell,"  the  little  man  contended  darkly; 
"  I  wouldn't  bet  thirty  cents  my  next  production  would 
turn  out  a  hit." 

"What  will  it  cost  —  your  next  production  ?" 

"The  show  I  have  in  mind-  "Max  considered  a 
moment  then  announced  positively :  "  between  eighteen 
and  twenty  thousand." 

"I  call  that  big  gambling." 

"  Gambling  ?  Oh,  that's  just  part  of  the  game.  I  meant 
a  side  bet.  If  the  production  flivvers,  I'll  need  that  thirty 
cents  for  coffee  and  sinkers  at  Dennett's.  So  I  won't 
bet.  .  .  .  But,"  he  volunteered  brightly,  "I'll  sell  you  a 
half  interest  in  the  show  for  twelve  thousand." 

"Is  that  a  threat  or  a  promise?" 

"I  mean  it,"  Max  insisted  seriously;  "though  I'll  admit 


CURTAIN  75 

I'm  not  crazy  about  your  accepting  —  yet.  I've  had 
several  close  calls  with  Sara  —  she's  threatened  to  chuck 
the  stage  often  before  this;  but  every  time  something 
'  -happened  to  make  her  change  her  mind.  I've  got  a 
hunch  maybe  something  will  happen  this  time,  too.  If 
it  does,  I  won't  want  any  partners." 

Whitaker  laughed  quietly  and  turned  the  conversation, 
accepting  the  manager's  pseudo-confidences  at  their  face 
value  —  that  is,  as  pure  bluff,  quite  consistent  with  the 
managerial  pose. 

They  rose  presently  and  made  their  way  out  into  the 
crowded,  blatant  night  of  Broadway. 

"We'll  walk,  if  you  don't  mind,"  Max  suggested.  "It 
isn't  far,  and  I'd  like  to  get  a  line  on  the  house  as  it  goes  in." 
He  sighed  affectedly.  "Heaven  knows  when  I'll  see 
another  swell  audience  mobbing  one  of  my  attractions  !" 

His  companion  raised  no  objection.  This  phase  of  the 
life  of  New  York  exerted  an  attraction  for  his  imagination 
of  unfailing  potency.  He  was  more  willing  to  view  it  afoot 
than  from  the  window's  of  a  cab. 

They  pushed  forward  slowly  through  the  eddying  tides, 
elbowed  by  a  matchless  motley  of  humanity,  deafened  by  its 
thousand  tongues,  dazzled  to  blindness  by  walls  of  living 
light.  Whitaker  experienced  a  sensation  of  participating 
in  a  royal  progress :  Max  was  plainly  a  man  of  mark ;  he 
left  a  wake  of  rippling  interest.  At  every  third  step 
somebody  hailed  him,  as  a  rule  by  his  first  name  ;  generally 
he  responded  by  a  curt  nod  and  a  tightening  of  his  teeth 
upon  his  cigar. 


76       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

They  turned  east  through  Forty-sixth  Street,  shouldered 
by  a  denser  rabble  whose  faces,  all  turned  in  one  direction, 
shone  livid  with  the  glare  of  a  gigantic  electric  sign,  midway 
down  the  block : 

THEATRE    MAX 

SARA  LAW'S 
FAREWELL 

It  was  nearly  half-past  eight ;  the  house  had  been  open 
since  seven ;  and  still  a  queue  ran  from  the  gallery  doors  to 
Broadway,  while  still  an  apparently  interminable  string  of 
vehicles  writhed  from  one  corner  to  the  lobby  entrance, 
paused  to  deposit  its  perishable  freight,  and  streaked  away 
to  Sixth  Avenue.  The  lobby  itself  was  crowded  to  suffoca 
tion  with  an  Occidental  durbar  of  barbaric  magnificence,  the 
city's  supreme  manifestation  of  its  religion,  the  ultimate 
rite  in  the  worship  of  the  pomps  of  the  flesh. 

"Look  at  that,"  Max  grumbled  through  his  cigar.  "Ain't 
it  a  shame?" 

"  What  ?"  Whitaker  had  to  lift  his  voice  to  make  it  carry 
above  the  buzzing  of  the  throng. 

"The  money  I'm  losing,"  returned  the  manager,  vividly 
disgusted.  "I  could've  filled  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House 
three  times  over  ! " 

He  swung  on  his  heel  and  began  to  push  his  way  out  of  the 
lobby.  "  Come  along  —  no  use  trying  to  get  in  this  way." 

Whitaker  followed,  to  be  led  down  a  blind  alley  between 
the  theatre  and  the  adjoining  hotel.  An  illuminated  sign 


CURTAIN  77 

advertised  the  stage  door,  through  which,  via  a  brief  hallway, 
they  entered  the  postscenium  —  a  vast,  cavernous,  clut 
tered,  shadowy  and  draughty  place,  made  visible  for  the 
most  part  by  an  unnatural  glow  filtering  from  the  footlights 
through  the  canvas  walls  of  an  interior  set.  Whitaker 
caught  hasty  glimpses  of  stage-hands  idling  about ;  heard  a 
woman's  voice  declaiming  loudly  from  within  the  set ;  saw 
a  middle-aged  actor  waiting  for  his  cue  beside  a  substantial 
wooden  door  in  the  canvas  walls ;  and  —  Max  dragging  him 
by  the  arm  —  passed  through  a  small  door  into  the  gang 
way  behind  the  boxes. 

"  Curtain's  just  up,"  Max  told  him ;  "  Sara  doesn't  come 
on  till  near  the  middle  of  the  act.  Make  yourself  comfort 
able  ;  I'll  be  back  before  long." 

He  drew  aside  a  curtain  and  ushered  his  guest  into  the 
right-hand  stage-box,  then  vanished.  Whitaker,  finding 
himself  the  sole  occupant  of  the  box,  established  himself  in 
desolate  grandeur  as  far  out  of  sight  as  he  could  arrange  his 
chair,  without  losing  command  of  the  stage.  A  single  glance 
over  the  body  of  the  house  showed  him  tier  upon  tier  of  dead- 
white  shirt-bosoms  framed  in  black,  alternating  with  bare 
gleaming  shoulders  and  dazzling,  exquisite  gowns.  The 
few  empty  stalls  were  rapidly  filling  up.  There  was  a  fluent 
movement  through  the  aisles.  A  subdued  hum  and  rustle 
rose  from  that  portion  of  the  audience  which  was  already 
seated.  The  business  going  on  upon  the  stage  was  receiving 
little  attention  —  from  Whitaker  as  little  as  from  any  one. 
He  was  vaguely  conscious  only  of  a  scene  suggesting  with 
cruel  cleverness  the  interior  of  a  shabby-genteel  New  York 


78       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

flat  and  of  a  few  figures  peopling  it,  all  dominated  by  a  heavy- 
limbed,  harsh-voiced  termagant.  That  to  which  he  was  most 
sensitive  was  a  purely  psychological  feeling  of  suspense  and 
excitement,  a  semi-hysterical,  high-strung,  emotional  state 
which  he  knew  he  shared  with  the  audience,  its  source  in 
fact.  The  opening  scene  in  the  development  of  the  drama 
interested  the  gathering  little  or  not  at  all ;  it  was  hanging  in 
suspense  upon  the  unfolding  of  some  extraordinary  develop 
ment,  something  unprecedented  and  extraneous,  foreign  to 
the  play. 

Was  it  due  simply  to  the  fact  that  all  these  people  were 
present  at  the  last  public  appearance  —  as  advertised  - 
of  a  star  of  unusual  popularity  ?     Whitaker  wondered.     Or 
was  there  something  else  in  their  minds,  something  deeper 
and  more  profoundly  significant  ? 

Max  slipped  quietly  into  the  box  and  handed  his  guest  a 
programme.  "  Better  get  over  here,"  he  suggested  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  indicating  a  chair  near  the  rail.  "  You  may  never 
have  another  chance  to  see  the  greatest  living  actress." 

Whitaker  thanked  him  and  adopted  the  suggestion,  albeit 
with  reluctance.  The  manager  remained  standing  for  a  mo 
ment,  quick  eyes  ranging  over  the  house.  By  this  time  the 
aisles  were  all  clear,  the  rows  of  seats  presenting  an  almost 
unbroken  array  of  upturned  faces. 

Max  combined  a  nod  denoting  satisfaction  with  a  slight 
frown. 

"Wonderful  house,"  he  whispered,  sitting  down  behind 
Whitaker.  "Drummond  hasn't  shown  up  yet,  though." 

"That  so  ?"  Whitaker  returned  over  his  shoulder. 


CURTAIN  79 

"Yes;  it's  funny;  never  knew  him  to  be  so  late.  He  al 
ways  has  the  aisle  seat,  fourth  row,  centre.  But  he'll  be 
along  presently." 

Whitaker  noted  that  the  designated  stall  was  vacant,  then 
tried  to  fix  his  attention  upon  the  stage ;  but  without  much 
success ;  after  a  few  moments  he  became  aware  that  he  had 
missed  something  important ;  the  scene  was  meaningless  to 
him,  lacking  what  had  gone  before. 

He  glanced  idly  at  his  programme,  indifferently  absorbing 
the  information  that  "  Jules  Max  has  the  honour  to  present 
Miss  Sara  Law  in  her  first  and  greatest  success  entitled  JOAN 
THURSDAY  —  a  play  in  three  acts  - 

The  audience  stirred  expectantly ;  a  movement  ran  through 
it  like  the  movement  of  waters,  murmurous,  upon  a  shore. 
Whitaker's  gaze  was  drawn  to  the  stage  as  if  by  an  implacable 
force.  Max  shifted  on  the  chair  behind  him  and  said  some 
thing  indistinguishable,  in  an  unnatural  tone. 

A  woman  had  come  upon  the  stage,  suddenly  and  tempest 
uously,  banging  a  door  behind  her.  The  audience  got  the 
barest  glimpse  of  her  profile  as,  pausing  momentarily,  she 
eyed  the  other  actors.  Then,  without  speaking,  she  turned 
and  walked  up-stage,  her  back  to  the  footlights. 

Applause  broke  out  like  a  thunderclap,  pealing  heavily 
through  the  big  auditorium,  but  the  actress  showed  no  con 
sciousness  of  it.  She  was  standing  before  a  cheap  mirror, 
removing  her  hat,  arranging  her  hair  with  the  typical,  un 
conscious  gestures  of  a  weary  shop-girl ;  she  was  acting  - 
living  the  scene,  with  no  time  to  waste  in  pandering  to 
her  popularity  by  bows  and  set  smiles;  she  remained 


80       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

before  the  glass,  prolonging  the  business,  until  the  applause 
subsided. 

Whitaker  received  an  impression  as  of  a  tremendous  force 
at  work  across  the  footlights.  The  woman  diffused  an  effect 
as  of  a  terrible  and  boundless  energy  under  positive  control. 
She  was  not  merely  an  actress,  not  even  merely  a  great  ac 
tress  ;  she  was  the  very  soul  of  the  drama  of  to-day. 

Beyond  this  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  she  was  his  wife. 
Sara  Law  was  the  woman  he  had  married  in  that  sleepy 
Connecticut  town,  six  years  before  that  night.  He  had  not 
yet  seen  her  face  clearly,  but  he  knew.  To  find  himself  mis 
taken  would  have  shaken  the  foundations  of  his  understand 
ing. 

Under  cover  of  the  applause,  he  turned  to  Max. 

"  Who  is  that  ?    What  is  her  name  ?  " 

"The  divine  Sara,"  Max  answered,  his  eyes  shining. 

"  I  mean,  what  is  her  name  off  the  stage,  in  private  life  ? " 

"The  same,"  Max  nodded  with  conviction;  "Sara  Law's 
the  only  name  she's  ever  worn  in  my  acquaintance  with  her." 

At  that  moment,  the  applause  having  subsided  to  such  an 
extent  that  it  was  possible  for  her  to  make  herself  heard,  the 
actress  swung  round  from  the  mirror  and  addressed  one  of 
the  other  players.  Her  voice  was  clear,  strong  and  vibrant, 
yet  sweet ;  but  Whitaker  paid  no  heed  to  the  lines  she  spoke. 
He  was  staring,  fascinated,  at  her  face. 

Sight  of  it  set  the  seal  of  certainty  upon  conviction :  she 
was  one  with  Mary  Ladislas.  He  had  forgotten  her  so  com 
pletely  in  the  lapse  of  years  as  to  have  been  unable  to  recall 
her  features  and  colouring,  yet  he  had  needed  only  to  see  to 


CURTAIN  81 

recognize  her  beyond  any  possibility  of  doubt.  Those  big, 
intensely  burning  eyes,  that  drawn  and  pallid  face,  the  quick, 
nervous  movements  of  her  thin  white  hands,  the  slenderness 
of  her  tall,  awkward,  immature  figure  —  in  every  line  and 
contour,  in  every  gesture  and  inflection,  she  reproduced  the 
Mary  Ladislas  whom  he  had  married. 

And  yet  .  .  .  Max  was  whispering  over  his  shoulder : 

"  Wonderful  make-up  —  what  ?  " 

"Make-up  !"  Whitaker  retorted.     "She's  not  made  up  - 
she's  herself  to  the  last  detail." 

Amusement  glimmered  in  the  manager's  round  little  eyes : 
"You  don't  know  her.  Wait  till  you  get  a  pipe  at  her  off 
the  stage."  Then  he  checked  the  reply  that  was  shaping  on 
WTiitaker's  lips,  with  a  warning  lift  of  his  hand  and  brows : 
"Ssh  !  Catch  this,  now.  She's  a  wonder  in  this  scene." 

The  superb  actress  behind  the  counterfeit  of  the  hunted 
and  hungry  shop-girl  was  holding  spell-bound  with  her  in 
evitable  witchery  the  most  sophisticated  audience  in  the 
world ;  like  wheat  in  a  windstorm  it  swayed  to  the  modula 
tions  of  her  marvellous  voice  as  it  ran  through  a  passage- 
at-arms  with  the  termagant.  Suddenly  ceasing  to  speak, 
she  turned  down  to  a  chair  near  the  footlights,  followed  by 
a  torrent  of  shrill  vituperation  under  the  lash  of  which  she 
quivered  like  a  whipped  thoroughbred. 

Abruptly,  pausing  with  her  hands  on  the  back  of  the  chair, 
there  came  a  change.  The  actress  had  glanced  across  the 
footlights ;  Whitaker  could  not  but  follow  the  direction  of 
her  gaze ;  the  eyes  of  both  focussed  for  a  brief  instant  on  the 
empty  aisle-seat  in  the  fourth  row.  A  shade  of  additional 


82       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

pallor  showed  on  the  woman's  face.  She  looked  quickly, 
questioningly,  toward  the  box  of  her  manager. 

Seated  as  he  was  so  near  the  stage,  Whitaker's  face  stood 
out  in  rugged  relief,  illumined  by  the  glow  reflected  from 
the  footlights.  It  was  inevitable  that  she  should  see  him. 
Her  eyes  fastened,  dilating,  upon  his.  The  scene  faltered 
perceptibly.  She  stood  transfixed.  .  .  . 

In  the  hush  Max  cried  impatiently:  "What  the  devil!" 
The  words  broke  the  spell  of  amazement  upon  the  actress. 
In  a  twinkling  the  pitiful  counterfeit  of  the  shop-girl  was  rent 
and  torn  away ;  it  hung  only  in  shreds  and  tatters  upon  an 
individuality  wholly  strange  to  Whitaker :  a  larger,  stronger 
woman  seemed  to  have  started  out  of  the  mask. 

She  turned,  calling  imperatively  into  the  wings :  "  Ring 
down!" 

Followed  a  pause  of  dumb  amazement.  In  all  the  house, 
during  the  space  of  thirty  pulse-beats,  no  one  moved.  Then 
Max  rapped  out  an  oath  and  slipped  like  quicksilver  from 
the  box. 

Simultaneously  the  woman's  foot  stamped  an  echo  from 
the  boards. 

"  Ring  down  ! "  she  cried.     "  Do  you  hear  ?     Ring  down  ! " 

With  a  rush  the  curtain  descended  as  pandemonium  broke 
out  on  both  sides  of  it. 


Her  eyes  fastened,  dilating,  upon  his.     The  scene  faltered  perceptibly 

Pafje  82 


VII 

THE   LATE   EXTRA 

IMPULSIVELY  Whitaker  got  up  to  follow  Max,  then  hesi 
tated  and  sank  back  in  doubt,  his  head  awhirl.  He  was  for 
the  time  being  shocked  out  of  all  capacity  for  clear  reasoning 
or  right  thinking.  Uppermost  in  his  consciousness  he  had  a 
half-formed  notion  that  it  wouldn't  help  matters  if  he  were 
to  force  himself  in  upon  the  crisis  behind  the  scenes. 

Beyond  all  question  his  wife  had  recognized  in  him  the  man 
whom  she  had  been  given  every  reason  to  believe  dead :  a 
discovery  so  unnerving  as  to  render  her  temporarily  unable 
to  continue.  But  if  theatrical  precedent  were  a  reliable 
guide,  she  would  presently  pull  herself  together  and  go  on ; 
people  of  the  stage  seldom  forget  that  their  first  duty  is  to 
the  audience.  If  he  sat  tight  and  waited,  all  might  yet  be 
well  —  as  well  as  any  such  hideous  coil  could  be  hoped  ever 
to  be.  ... 

As  has  been  indicated,  he  arrived  at  his  conclusion  through 
no  such  detailed  argument ;  his  mind  leaped  to  it,  and  he 
rested  upon  it  while  still  beset  by  a  half-score  of  tormenting 
considerations. 

This,  then,  explained  Drummond's  reluctance  to  have 
him  bidden  to  the  supper  party ;  whatever  ultimate  course 
of  action  he  planned  to  pursue,  Drummond  had  been  un- 

83 


84       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

willing,  perhaps  pardonably  so,  to  have  his  romance"  over 
thrown  and  altogether  shattered  in  a  single  day. 

And  Drummond,  too,  must  have  known  who  Sara  Law 
was,  even  while  denying  knowledge  of  the  existence  of  Mary 
Ladislas  Whitaker.  He  had  lied,  lied  desperately,  doubtless 
meaning  to  encompass  a  marriage  before  Whitaker  could 
find  his  wife,  and  so  furnish  him  with  every  reason  that 
could  influence  an  honourable  man  to  disappear  a  second 
time. 

Herein,  moreover,  lay  the  reason  for  the  lawyer's  failure  to 
occupy  his  stall  on  that  farewell  night.  It  was  just  possible 
that  Whitaker  would  not  recognize  his  wife;  and  vice  versa; 
but  it  was  a  chance  that  Drummond  hadn't  the  courage  to 
face.  Even  so,  he  might  have  hidden  himself  somewhere 
in  the  house,  waiting  and  watching  to  see  what  would 
happen. 

On  the  other  hand,  Max  to  a  certainty  was  ignorant  of 
the  relationship  between  his  star  and  his  old-time  friend, 
just  as  he  must  have  been  ignorant  of  her  identity  with  the 
one-time  Mary  Ladislas.  For  that  matter,  WThitaker  had  to 
admit  that,  damning  as  was  the  evidence  to  controvert  the 
theory,  Drummond  might  be  just  as  much  in  the  dark  as  Max 
was.  There  was  always  the  chance  that  the  girl  had  kept 
her  secret  to  herself,  inviolate,  informing  neither  her  manager 
nor  the  man  she  had  covenanted  to  wed.  Drummond's  ab 
sence  from  the  house  might  be  due  to  any  one  of  a  hundred 
reasons  other  than  that  to  which  Whitaker  inclined  to  assign 
it.  It  was  only  fair  to  suspend  judgment.  In  the  mean 
time  . 


85 

The  audience  was  getting  beyond  control.  The  clamour 
of  comment  and  questioning  which  had  broken  loose  when 
the  curtain  fell  was  waxing  and  gaining  a  high  querulous 
note  of  impatience.  In  the  gallery  the  gods  were  beginning 
to  testify  to  their  normal  intolerance  with  shrill  whistles, 
cat-calls,  sporadic  bursts  of  hand-clapping  and  a  steady, 
sinister  rumble  of  stamping  feet.  In  the  orchestra  and 
dress-circle  people  were  moving  about  restlessly  and  talk 
ing  at  the  top  of  their  voices  in  order  to  make  themselves 
heard  above  the  growing  din.  Had  there  been  music  to  fill 
the  interval,  they  might  have  been  more  calm ;  but  Max  had 
fallen  in  with  the  theatrical  dernier  cri  and  had  eliminated 
orchestras  from  his  houses,  employing  only  a  peal  of  gongs  to 
insure  silence  and  attention  before  each  curtain. 

Abruptly  Max  himself  appeared  at  one  side  of  the  pro 
scenium  arch.  It  was  plain  to  those  nearest  the  stage  that 
he  was  seriously  disturbed.  There  was  a  noticeable  hesi 
tancy  in  his  manner,  a  pathetic  frenzy  in  his  habitually  mild 
and  lustrous  eyes.  Advancing  halfway  to  the  middle  of 
the  apron,  he  paused,  begging  attention  with  a  pudgy  hand. 
It  was  a  full  minute  before  the  gallery  would  let  him  be  heard. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  announced  plaintively,  "I 
much  regret  to  inform  you  that  Miss  Law  has  suffered  a  se 
vere  nervous  shock"  —his  gaze  wandered  in  perplexed  in 
quiry  toward  the  right-hand  stage-box,  then  was  hastily 
averted  -  "  and  will  not  be  able  to  continue  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  If  you  will  kindly  grant  us  your  patience  for  a  very 
few  minutes  ..."  He  backed  precipitately  from  view, 
hounded  by  mocking  applause. 


86       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

A  lull  fell,  but  only  temporarily.  As  the  minutes  length 
ened,  the  gallery  grew  more  and  more  obstreperous  and  tur 
bulent.  Wave  upon  wave  of  sound  swept  through  the  audi 
torium  to  break,  roaring,  against  the  obdurate  curtain. 
When  eventually  a  second  figure  appeared  before  the  foot 
lights,  the  audience  seemed  to  understand  that  Max  dared 
not  show  himself  again,  and  why.  It  was  with  difficulty 
that  the  man  —  evidently  the  stage-manager  —  contrived 
to  make  himself  disconnectedly  audible. 

"Ladies  and  ..."  he  shouted,  sweat  beading  his  per 
turbed  forehead  .  .  .  "regret  .  .  .  impossible  to  continue 
.  .  .  money  .  .  .  box-office  .  .  .  ' 

An  angry  howl  drowned  him  out.  He  retreated  at  accel 
erated  discretion. 

Whitaker,  slipping  through  the  stage-door  behind  the  boxes, 
ran  into  the  last  speaker  standing  beside  the  first  entrance, 
heatedly  explaining  to  any  one  who  would  listen  the  utter 
futility  of  offering  box-office  prices  in  return  for  seat  checks 
which  in  the  majority  of  instances  had  cost  their  holders 
top-notch  speculator  prices. 

"They'll  wreck  the  theatre,"  he  shouted  excitedly,  mop 
ping  his  brow  with  his  coat  sleeve,  "and  damned  if  I  blame 
'em  !  What  t'ell'd  she  wana  pull  a  raw  one  like  this  for  ?" 

Whitaker  caught  his  arm  in  a  grasp  compelling  attention. 

"W7here's  Miss  Law  ?"  he  asked. 

"You  tell  me  and  I'll  make  you  a  handsome  present,"  re 
torted  the  man. 

"  What's  happened  to  her  ?    Can't  you  find  her  ?  " 

"  I  dunno  —  go  ask  Max." 


THE    LATE     EXTRA  87 

"Where  is  kef" 

"You  can  search  me ;  last  I  saw  of  him  he  was  tearing  the 
star  dressin'-room  up  by  the  roots." 

Whitaker  hurried  on  just  in  time  to  see  Max  disappearing 
in  the  direction  of  the  stage-door,  at  which  point  he  caught 
up  with  him,  and  from  the  manager's  disjointed  catechism 
of  the  doorkeeper  garnered  the  information  that  the  star 
had  hurried  out  of  the  building  while  Max  was  making  his 
announcement  before  the  curtain. 

Max  swung  angrily  upon  Whitaker. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ?  Perhaps  you  can  explain  what  this 
means?  She  was  looking  straight  at  you  when  she  dried 
up  !  I  saw  her  - 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  find  Miss  Law  and  ask  her," 
Whitaker  interrupted.  "Have  you  any  idea  where  she's 


"Home,  probably,"  Max  snapped  in  return. 

"Where's  that?" 

"  Fifty-seventh  Street  —  house  of  her  own  —  just  bought 
it." 

"Come  on,  then."  Passing  his  arm  through  the  man 
ager's,  Whitaker  drew  him  out  into  the  alley.  "We'll  get 
a  taxi  before  this  mob  — 

"But,  look  here  —  what  business've  you  got  mixing  in  ?" 

"Ask  Miss  Law,"  said  Whitaker,  shortly.  It  had  been  on 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  tell  the  man  flatly:  "I'm  her  hus 
band."  But  he  retained  wit  enough  to  deny  himself  the 
satisfaction  of  this  shattering  rejoinder.  "I  know  her,"  he 
added ;  "  that's  enough  for  the  present." 


88       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  If  you  knew  her  all  the  time,  why  didn't  you  say  so  ? " 
Max  expostulated  with  passion. 

"  I  didn't  know  I  knew  her  —  by  that  name,"  said  Whit- 
aker  lamely. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  alley  Max  paused  to  listen  to  the 
uproar  within  his  well-beloved  theatre. 

"I'd  give  five  thousand  gold  dollars  if  I  hadn't  met  you 
this  afternoon  !"  he  groaned. 

"It's  too  late,  now,"  Whitaker  mentioned  the  obvious. 
"  But  if  I'd  understood,  I  promise  you  I  wouldn't  have  come 
—  at  least  to  sit  where  she  could  see  me." 

He  began  gently  to  urge  Max  toward  Broadway,  but  the 
manager  hung  back  like  a  sulky  child. 

"Hell !"  he  grumbled.  "I  always  knew  that  woman  was 
a  Jonah  !" 

"  You  were  calling  her  your  mascot  two  hours  ago." 

"She'll  be  the  death  of  me,  yet,"  the  little  man  insisted 
gloomily.  He  stopped  short,  jerking  his  arm  free.  "Look 
here,  I'm  not  going.  What's  the  use?  We'd  only  row. 
And  I've  got  my  work  cut  out  for  me  back  there "  —  with  a 
jerk  of  his  head  toward  the  theatre. 

Whitaker  hesitated,  then  without  regret  decided  to  lose 
him.  It  would  be  as  well  to  get  over  the  impending  inter 
view  without  a  third  factor. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  beckoning  a  taxicab  in  to  the  curb. 
"What's  the  address?" 

Max  gave  it  sullenly. 

"So  long,"  he  added  morosely  as  Whitaker  opened  the 
cab  door;  "sorry  I  ever  laid  eyes  on  you." 


THE    LATE    EXTRA  89 

Whitaker  hesitated.  "How  about  that  supper?"  he  in 
quired.  "Is  it  still  on?" 

"How  in  blazes  do  I  know?  Come  round  to  the  Beaux 
Arts  and  find  out  for  yourself  —  same's  I'll  have  to." 

"All  right,"  said  Whitaker  doubtfully.  He  nodded  to  the 
chauffeur,  and  jumped  into  the  cab.  As  they  swung  away 
he  received  a  parting  impression  of  Max,  his  pose  modelled 
on  the  popular  conception  of  Napoleon  at  Waterloo :  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  hair  in  disorder,  chin  on  his  chest, 
a  puzzled  frown  shadowing  his  face  as  he  stared  sombrely 
after  his  departing  guest. 

Whitaker  settled  back  and,  oblivious  to  the  lights  of  Broad 
way  streaming  past,  tried  to  think  —  tried  with  indifferent 
success  to  prepare  himself  against  the  unhappy  conference  he 
had  to  anticipate.  It  suddenly  presented  itself  to  his  reason, 
with  shocking  force,  that  his  attitude  must  be  humbly  and 
wholly  apologetic.  It  was  a  singular  case :  he  had  come  home 
to  find  his  wife  on  the  point  of  marrying  another  man — and 
she  was  the  one  entitled  to  feel  aggrieved  !  Strange  twist  of 
the  eternal  triangle  !  .  .  . 

He  tried  desperately,  and  with  equal  futility,  to  frame  some 
excuse  for  his  fault. 

Far  too  soon  the  machine  swerved  into  Fifty-seventh 
Street,  slipped  halfway  down  the  block,  described  a  wide 
arc  to  the  northern  curb  and  pulled  up,  trembling,  before 
a  modest  modern  residence  between  Sixth  and  Seventh 
avenues. 

Reluctantly  Whitaker  got  out  and,  on  suspicion,  told  the 
chauffeur  to  wait.  Then,  with  all  the  alacrity  of  a  condemned 


90       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

man  ascending  the  scaffold,  he  ran  up  the  steps  to  the  front 
door. 

A  man-servant  answered  his  ring  without  undue  delay. 

Was  Miss  Law  at  home  ?     He  would  see. 

This  indicated  that  she  was  at  home.  Whitaker  tendered 
a  card  with  his  surname  pencilled  after  that  of  Mr.  Hugh 
Morten  in  engraved  script.  He  was  suffered  to  enter  and 
wait  in  the  hallway. 

He  stared  round  him  with  pardonable  wonder.  If  this 
were  truly  the  home  of  Mary  Ladislas  Whitaker  —  her 
property — he  had  builded  far  better  than  he  could  possibly 
have  foreseen  with  that  investment  of  five  hundred  dollars 
six  years  since.  But  who,  remembering  the  tortured,  half- 
starved  child  of  the  Commercial  House,  could  have  prefigured 
the  Sara  Law  of  to-day  —  the  woman  who,  before  his  eyes, 
within  that  hour,  had  burst  through  the  counterfeit  of  herself 
of  yesterday  like  some  splendid  creature  emerging  from  its 
chrysalis  ? 

Soft,  shaded  lights,  rare  furnishings,  the  rich  yet  delicate 
atmosphere  of  exquisite  taste,  the  hush  and  orderly  perfec 
tion  of  a  home  made  and  maintained  with  consummate  art : 
these  furnished  him  with  dim,  provoking  intimations  of 
an  individuality  to  which  he  was  a  stranger  —  less  than  a 
stranger  —  nothing.  .  .  . 

The  man-servant  brought  his  dignity  down-stairs  again. 

Would  Mr.  Whitaker  be  pleased  to  wait  in  the  drawing- 
room? 

Mr.  Whitaker  surrendered  top-coat  and  hat  and  was  shown 
into  the  designated  apartment.  Almost  immediately  he  be- 


THE    LATE    EXTRA  91 

came  aware  of  feminine  footsteps  on  the  staircase  —  tap 
ping  heels,  the  faint  murmuring  of  skirts.  He  faced  the 
doorway,  indefinably  thrilled,  the  blood  quickening  in 
throat  and  temples. 

To  his  intense  disappointment  there  entered  to  him  a 
woman  impossible  to  confuse  with  her  whom  he  sought :  a  lady 
well  past  middle-age,  with  the  dignity  and  poise  consistent 
with  her  years,  her  manifest  breeding  and  her  iron-gray  hair. 

"Mr.  Whitaker?" 

He  bowed,  conscious  that  he  was  being  narrowly  scru 
tinized,  nicely  weighed  in  the  scales  of  a  judgment  prejudiced, 
if  at  all,  not  in  his  favor. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Secretan,  a  friend  of  Miss  Law's.  She  has  asked 
me  to  say  that  she  begs  to  be  excused,  at  least  for  to-night. 
She  has  suffered  a  severe  shock  and  is  able  to  see  nobody." 

"I  understand  —  and  I'm  sorry,"  said  Whitaker,  swal 
lowing  his  chagrin. 

"And  I  am  further  instructed  to  ask  if  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  leave  your  address." 

"Certainly:    I'm  stopping  at  the  Ritz-Carlton ;    but" 
he  demurred  -    "I  should  like  to  leave  a  note,  if  I  may  —  ?" 

Mrs.  Secretan  nodded  an  assent.  "  You  will  find  materials 
in  the  desk  there,"  she  added,  indicating  an  escritoire. 

Thanking  her,  Whitaker  sat  down,  and,  after  some  hesita 
tion,  wrote  a  few  lines : 

"Please  don't  think  I  mean  to  cause  you  the  slightest  incon 
venience  or  distress.  I  shall  be  glad  to  further  your  wishes  in  any 
way  you  may  care  to  designate.  Please  believe  in  my  sincere 
regret  .  .  ." 


92       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Signing  and  folding  this,  he  rose  and  delivered  it  to  Mrs. 
Secretan. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  with  a  ceremonious  bow. 

The  customary  civilities  were  scrupulously  observed. 

He  found  himself  in  the  street,  with  his  trouble  for  all 
reward  for  his  pains.  He  wondered  what  to  do,  where  to 
go,  next.  There  was  in  his  mind  a  nagging  thought  that  he 
ought  to  do  something  or  other,  somehow  or  other,  to  find 
Drummond  and  make  him  understand  that  he,  Whitaker,  had 
no  desire  or  inclination  to  stand  in  his  light;  only,  let  the 
thing  be  consummated  decently,  as  privately  as  possible,  with 
due  deference  to  the  law.  .  .  . 

The  driver  of  the  taxicab  was  holding  the  door  for  him, 
head  bent  to  catch  the  address  of  the  next  stop.  But  his 
fare  lingered  still  in  doubt. 

Dimly  he  became  aware  of  the  violent  bawlings  of  a  brace 
of  news-vendors  who  were  ramping  through  the  street,  one 
on  either  sidewalk.  Beyond  two  words  which  seemed  to  be 
intended  for  "extra"  and  "tragedy"  their  cries  were  as  in 
articulate  as  they  were  deafening. 

At  the  spur  of  a  vague  impulse,  bred  of  an  incredulous 
wonder  if  the  papers  were  already  noising  abroad  the  news 
of  the  fiasco  at  the  Theatre  Max,  Whitaker  stopped  one  of 
the  men  and  purchased  a  paper.  It  was  delivered  into  his 
hands  roughly  folded  so  that  a  section  of  the  front  page  which 
blazed  with  crimson  ink  was  uppermost  —  and  indicated, 
moreover,  by  a  ridiculously  dirty  thumb. 

"Ther'y'are,  sir.    'Orrible  moider  .  .  .  Thanky  .  .  ." 

The  man  galloped  on,  howling.    But  Whitaker  stood  with 


THE    LATE    EXTRA  93 

his  gaze  riveted  in  horror.  The  news  item  so  pointedly 
offered  to  his  attention  was  clearly  legible  in  the  light  of  the 
cab  lamps ; 

LATEST  EXTRA 
TRAGIC  SUICIDE   IN   HARLEM   RIVER 

Stopping  his  automobile  in  the  middle  of  Wash 
ington  Bridge  at  7.30  P.M.,  Carter  S.  Drummond, 
the  lawyer  and  fiance  of  Sara  Law  the  actress, 
threw  himself  to  his  death  in  the  Harlem  River. 
The  body  has  not  as  yet  been  recovered. 


VIII 

A   HISTORY 

WHITAKER  returned  at  once  to  the  Theatre  Max,  but  only 
to  find  the  front  of  the  house  dark,  Forty-sixth  Street  gradu 
ally  reassuming  its  normal  nocturnal  aspect. 

At  the  stage-door  he  discovered  that  no  one  knew  what 
had  become  of  the  manager.  He  might  possibly  be  at  home. 
...  It  appeared  that  Max  occupied  exclusive  quarters 
especially  designed  for  him  in  the  theatre  building  itself : 
an  amiable  idiosyncrasy  not  wholly  lacking  in  advertising 
value,  if  one  chose  to  consider  it  in  that  light. 

His  body-servant,  a  prematurely  sour  Japanese,  suggested 
grudgingly  that  his  employer  might  not  improbably  be  found 
at  Rector's  or  Louis  Martin's.  But  he  wasn't ;  not  by  Whit- 
aker,  at  least. 

Eventually  the  latter  realized  that  it  wasn't  absolutely 
essential  to  his  peace  of  mind  or  material  welfare  to  find  Max 
that  night.  He  had  been,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  seeking  him 
in  thoughtless  humour  —  moved,  solely  by  the  gregarious  in 
stinct  in  man,  which  made  him  want  to  discuss  the  amazing 
events  of  the  evening  with  the  one  who,  next  to  himself  and 
Sara  Law,  was  most  vitally  concerned  with  them. 

He  consulted  a  telephone  book  without  finding  that  Drum- 
mond  had  any  private  residence  connection,  and  then  tried 
at  random  one  of  the  clubs  of  which  they  had  been  members 

94 


AHISTORY  95 

in  common  in  the  days  when  Hugh  Whitaker  was  a  human 
entity  in  the  knowledge  of  the  town.  Here  he  had  better 
"luck  —  luck,  that  is,  in  as  far  as  it  put  an  end  to  his  wander 
ings  for  the  night;  he  found  a  clerk  who  remembered  his 
face  without  remembering  his  name,  and  who,  consequently, 
was  not  unwilling  to  talk.  Drummond,  it  seemed,  had  lived 
at  the  club ;  he  had  dined  alone,  that  evening,  in  his  room ; 
had  ordered  his  motor  car  from  the  adjacent  garage  for  seven 
o'clock ;  and  had  left  at  about  that  hour  with  a  small  hand 
bag  and  no  companion.  Nothing  further  was  known  of  his 
actions  save  the  police  report.  The  car  had  been  found 
stationary  on  Washington  Bridge,  and  deserted,  Drum- 
mond's  motor  coat  and  cap  on  the  driver's  seat.  Bystanders 
averred  that  a  man  had  been  seen  to  leave  the  car  and  pre 
cipitate  himself  from  the  bridge  to  the  stream  below.  The 
body  was  still  unrecovered.  The  club  had  notified  by  tele 
graph  a  brother  in  San  Francisco,  the  only  member  of  Drum- 
mond's  family  of  whom  it  had  any  record.  Friends,  fellow- 
members  of  the  club,  were  looking  after  things  —  doing  all 
that  could  and  properly  ought  to  be  done  under  the  circum 
stances. 

Whitaker  walked  back  to  his  hotel.  There  was  no  other 
place  to  go :  no  place,  that  is,  that  wooed  his  humour  in 
that  hour.  He  could  call  to  mind,  of  course,  names  of 
friends  and  acquaintances  of  the  old  days  to  whom  there  was 
no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  turn,  now  that  he  had  elected 
to  rediscover  himself  to  the  world ;  but  there  was  none  of 
them  all  that  he  really  wanted  to  see  before  he  had  regained 
complete  control  of  his  emotions. 


He  was,  indeed,  profoundly  shocked.  He  held  himself 
measurably  responsible  for  Drummond's  act  of  desperation. 
If  he  had  not  wilfully  sought  to  evade  the  burden  of  his  duty 
to  Mary  Ladislas,  when  he  found  that  he  was  to  live  rather 
than  die — if  he  had  been  honest  and  generous  instead  of  al 
lowing  himself  to  drift  into  cowardly  defalcation  to  her  trust 
—  Drummond,  doubtless,  would  still  be  alive.  Or  even  if, 
having  chosen  the  recreant  way,  he  had  had  the  strength  to 
stick  to  it,  to  stay  buried  .  .  . 

Next  to  poor  Peter  Stark,  whom  his  heart  mourned  with 
out  ceasing,  he  had  cared  most  for  Drummond  of  all  the  men 
he  had  known  and  liked  in  the  old  life.  Now  ...  he  felt 
alone  and  very  lonely,  sick  of  heart  and  forlorn.  There  was, 
of  course,  Lynch,  his  partner  in  the  Antipodes ;  Whitaker  was 
fond  of  Lynch,  but  not  with  the  affection  that  a  generous- 
spirited  youth  had  accorded  Peter  Stark  and  Drummond  —  a 
blind  and  unreasoning  affection  that  asked  no  questions  and 
made  nothing  of  faults.  The  capacity  for  such  sentiment 
was  dead  in  him,  as  dead  as  Peter  Stark,  as  dead  as 
Drummond.  .  .  . 

It  was  nearly  midnight,  but  the  hour  found  Whitaker  in 
no  humour  for  bed  or  the  emptiness  of  his  room.  -He  strolled 
into  the  lounge,  sat  down  at  a  detached  table  in  a  corner,  and 
ordered  something  to  drink.  There  were  not  many  others 
in  the  room,  but  still  enough  to  mitigate  to  some  extent  his 
temporary  horror  of  utter  loneliness. 

He  felt  painfully  the  heaviness  of  his  debt  to  the  woman  he 
had  married.  He  who  had  promised  her  new  life  and  the 
rich  fulfilment  thereof  had  accomplished  only  its  waste  and 


AHISTORY  97 

desolation.  He  had  thrust  upon  her  the  chance  to  find  hap 
piness,  and  as  rudely  had  snatched  it  away  from  her.  Nor 
could  he  imagine  any  way  in  which  he  might  be  able  to  expi 
ate  his  breach  of  trust  —  his  sins  of  omission  and  commission, 
alike  deadly  and  unpardonable  ! 

Unless  ...  He  caught  eagerly  at  the  thought :  he  might 
"die"  again  —  go  away  once  more,  and  forever;  bury  him 
self  deep  beyond  the  groping  tentacles  of  civilization;  dis 
appear  finally,  notifying  her  of  his  intention,  so  that  she 
might  seek  legal  freedom  from  his  name.  It  only  needed 
Max's  silence,  which  could  unquestionably  be  secured,  to 
insure  her  against  the  least  breath  of  scandal,  the  faintest 
whisper  of  gossip.  .  .  .  Not  that  Max  really  knew  any 
thing;  but  the  name  of  Whitaker,  as  identified  with  Hugh 
Morten,  might  better  be  permitted  to  pass  unechoed  into 
oblivion.  .  .  . 

And  with  this  very  thought  in  mind  he  became  aware  of 
the  echo  of  that  name  in  his  hearing. 

A  page,  bearing  something  on  a  salver,  ambled  through 
the  lounge,  now  and  again  opening  his  mouth  to  bleat,  dis 
passionately :  "Mista  Whitaker,  Mista  Whitaker!" 

The  owner  of  that  name  experienced  a  flush  of  exaspera 
tion.  What  right  had  the  management  to  cause  him  to  be 
advertised  in  every  public  room  of  the  establishment  ?  .  .  . 
But  the  next  instant  his  resentment  evaporated,  when  he 
remembered  that  he  remained  Mr.  Hugh  Morten  in  the 
managerial  comprehension. 

He  lifted  a  finger ;  the  boy  swerved  toward  him,  tendered 
a  blue  envelope,  accepted  a  gratuity  and  departed. 


98       THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

It  was  a  cable  message :  very  probably  an  answer  to  his 
to  Grace  Pettit.  Whitaker  tore  the  envelope  and  unfolded 
the  enclosure,  glancing  first  at  the  signature  to  verify  his 
surmise.  As  he  did  so,  he  heard  his  name  a  second  time. 

"Pardon  me ;  this  is  Mr.  Whitaker ?" 

A  man  stood  beside  the  little  table  —  one  whom  Whitaker 
had  indifferently  noticed  on  entering  as  an  equally  lonely 
lounger  at  another  table. 

Though  he  frowned  involuntarily  with  annoyance,  he 
couldn't  well  deny  his  identity. 

"Yes,"  he  said  shortly,  looking  the  man  up  and  down  with 
a  captious  eye. 

Yet  it  was  hard  to  find  much  fault  with  this  invader  of  his 
preoccupation.  He  had  the  poise  and  the  dress  of  a  gentle 
man  :  dignity  without  aggressiveness,  completeness  without 
ostentation.  He  had  a  spare,  not  ungraceful  body,  a  plain, 
dark  face,  a  humorous  mouth,  steady  eyes :  a  man  easily 
forgotten  or  overlooked  unless  he  willed  it  otherwise. 

"My  name  is  Ember,"  he  said  quietly.  "If  you'll  permit 
me  —  my  card."  He  offered  a  slip  of  pasteboard  engraved 
with  the  name  of  Martin  Ember.  "And  I'll  sit  down,  be 
cause  I  want  to  talk  to  you  for  a  few  minutes." 

Accordingly  he  sat  down.  Whitaker  glanced  at  the  card, 
and  questioningly  back  at  Mr.  Ember's  face. 

"  I  don't  know  you,  but  .  .  .  What  are  we  to  talk  about, 
please?" 

The  man  smiled,  not  unpleasingly. 

"Mrs.  Whitaker,"  he  said. 

Whitaker  stared,  frowned,  and  jumped  at  a  conclusion. 


A    HISTORY  99 

"You  represent  Mrs.  Whitaker?" 

-  Mr.  Ember  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  no  lawyer,  thank  God  ! 
But  I  happen  to  know  a  good  deal  it  would  be  to  your  ad 
vantage  to  know;  so  I've  taken  this  liberty." 

"Mrs.  Whitaker  didn't  send  you  to  me?  Then  how  —  ? 
What  the  deuce  —  !" 

"  I  happened  to  have  a  seat  near  your  box  at  the  theatre 
to-night,"  Mr.  Ember  explained  coolly.  "  From  —  what  I 
saw  there,  I  inferred  that  you  must  be  —  yourself.  After 
wards  I  got  hold  of  Max,  confirmed  my  suspicion,  and  ex 
tracted  your  address  from  him." 

"I  see,"  said  Whitaker,  slowly  —  not  comprehending  the 
main  issue  at  all.  "But  I'm  not  known  here  by  the  name  of 
Whitaker." 

"So  I  discovered,"  said  Ember,  with  his  quiet,  engaging 
smile.  "If  I  hadn't  remembered  that  you  sometimes  regis 
tered  as  Hugh  Morten  —  as,  for  instance,  at  the  Commercial 
House  six  years  ago  — 

"You  were  there  !" 

"A  considerable  time  after  the  event  —  yes."  The  man 
nodded,  his  eyes  glimmering. 

Whitaker  shot  a  quick  glance  round  the  room,  and  was  re 
lieved  to  find  they  were  not  within  earshot  of  any  of  the  other 
occupied  tables. 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  he  demanded  bluntly. 

"I  was,"  said  the  other  slowly,  "once,  a  private  detective. 
Now  —  I'm  a  person  of  no  particular  employment,  of  in 
dependent  means,  with  a  penchant  —  you're  at  liberty  to 
assume  —  for  poking  my  nose  into  other  people's  business." 


100     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Oh  .  .  ." 

A  word,  "  blackmail,"  leapt  into  Whitaker's  consciousness, 
and  served  to  harden  the  hostility  in  his  attitude. 

"  Mrs.  George  Pettit  once  employed  me  to  find  her  sister, 
Miss  Mary  Ladislas,  who  had  run  away  with  a  chauffeur 
named  Morton,"  pursued  the  man,  evenly.  "That  was 
about  the  time  —  shortly  after  —  the  death  of  Thurlow 
Ladislas ;  say,  two  months  after  the  so-called  elopement." 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  Whitaker  suddenly-  "by  your 
leave  — 

Ember  bowed  gravely.  For  a  thought  longer  Whitaker's 
gaze  bored  into  his  eyes  in  vain  effort  to  fathom  what  was 
gojng  on  behind  them,  the  animus  undiscovered  by  his  words ; 
then,  remembering,  he  looked  down  at  the  cable  message  in 
his  hand. 

"Martin  Ember  (it  ran)  private  agency  1435  Broadway 
Grace  Pettit:' 

Whitaker  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  away  in  a  pocket. 

"  Go  on,  please,"  he  said  quietly. 

"In  those  days,"  Mr.  Ember  resumed,  "I  did  such  things 
indifferently  well.  I  had  little  trouble  in  following  the  run 
aways  from  Southampton  to  Greenpqrt.  There  they  parted. 
The  girl  crossed  to  the  Connecticut  shore,  while  the  man  went 
back  to  New  York  with  the  automobile.  He  turned  the 
machine  in  at  the  Ladislas  garage,  by  the  way,  and  promptly 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  police.  He  was  wanted  for  theft 
in  a  former  position,  was  arrested,  convicted  and  sent  to 
Sing  Sing ;  where  he  presently  died,  I'm  glad  to  say.  .  .  . 
I  thought  this  information  might  interest  you." 


A    HISTORY  101 

Whitaker  nodded  grimly. 

"Can  I  order  you  something  to  drink  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you — and  I'm  already  smoking."  Mr.  Ember 
dropped  the  ash  from  a  cigar.  "On  the  Connecticut  side 
(because  it  was  my  business  to  find  out  things)  I  discovered 
that  Miss  Ladislas  had  registered  at  the  Commercial  House 
as  Mrs.  Morton.  She  was  there,  alone,  under  that  name, 
for  nearly  a  week  before  you  registered  as  Hugh  Morten, 
and  in  the  space  of  a  few  hours  married  her,  under  your  true 
name,  and  shipped  her  off  to  New  York." 

"  Right,"  Whitaker  agreed  steadily.     "  And  then  —  ?  " 

"I  traced  her  to  the  Hotel  Belmont,  where  she  stopped 
overnight,  then  lost  her  completely ;  and  so  reported  to  Mrs. 
Pettit.  I  must  mention  here,  in  confidence,  in  order  that 
you  may  understand  my  subsequent  action,  that  my  bill  for 
the  investigation  was  never  paid.  Mr.  Pettit  was  not  in 
very  comfortable  circumstances  at  the  time.  .  .  .  No 
matter.  I  didn't  press  him,  and  later  was  glad  of  it,  for  it 
left  me  a  free  agent  —  under  no  obligation  to  make  further 
report." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"In  a  moment  ...  I  came  into  a  little  money  about 
that  time,  and  gave  up  my  business :  gave  it  up,  that  is,  as 
far  as  placing  myself  at  the  service  of  the  public  was  con 
cerned.  I  retained  my  devouring  curiosity  about  things 
that  didn't  concern  me  personally,  although  they  were  often 
matters  of  extreme  interest  to  the  general  public.  In  other 
words,  I  continued  to  employ  my  time  professionally,  but 
only  for  my  private  amusement  or  in  the  interests  of  my 


102     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

friends.  .  .  .  After  some  time  Mr.  Drummond  sought  me 
out  and  begged  me  to  renew  my  search  for  Mrs.  Whitaker; 
you  were  dead,  he  told  me ;  she  was  due  to  come  into  your 
estate  —  a  comfortable  living  for  an  independent  woman." 

"And  you  found  her  .and  told  Drummond  —  ?" 

Whitaker  leaned  over  the  table,  studying  the  man's  face 
with  intense  interest. 

"  No  —  and  yes.  I  found  Mrs.  Whitaker.  I  didn't  report 
to  Drummond." 

"But  why  —  in  Heaven's  name ?" 

Ember  smiled  sombrely  at  the  drooping  ash  of  his  cigar. 
"There  were  several  reasons.  In  the  first  place  I  didn't 
have  to :  I  had  asked  no  retainer  from  Drummond,  and  I 
rendered  no  bill :  what  I  had  found  out  was  mine,  to  keep 
or  to  sell,  as  I  chose.  I  chose  not  to  sell  because  —  well,  be 
cause  Mrs.  Whitaker  begged  me  not  to." 

"Ah!"  Whitaker  breathed,  sitting  back.     "Why?" 

"  This  was  all  of  a  year,  I  think,  after  your  marriage.  Mrs. 
Whitaker  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  independence  and  —  got 
the  habit.  She  had  adopted  a  profession  looked  upon  with 
abhorrence  by  her  family ;  she  was  succeeding  in  it ;  I  may 
say  her  work  was  foreshadowing  that  extraordinary  power 
which  made  her  the  Sara  Law  whom  you  saw  to-night.  If 
she  came  forward  as  the  widow  of  Hugh  Whitaker,  it  meant 
renunciation  of  the  stage ;  it  meant  painful  scenes  with  her 
family  if  she  refused  to  abandon  her  profession ;  it  meant 
the  loss  of  liberty,  of  freedom  of  action  and  development, 
which  was  hers  in  her  decent  obscurity.  She  was  already 
successful  in  a  small  way,  had  little  need  of  the  money  she 


AHISTORY  103 

would  get  as  claimant  of  your  estate.  She  enlisted  my  sym 
pathy,  and  —  I  held  my  tongue." 

"That  was  decent  of  you." 

The  man  bowed  a  quiet  acknowledgment.  "I  thought 
you'd  think  so.  ...  There  was  a  third  reason." 

He  paused,  until  Whitaker  encouraged  him  with  a 
"Yes  —  ?" 

"Mr.  Whitaker"  -the  query  came  point-blank-  "do 
you  love  your  wife  ?" 

Whitaker  caught  his  breath.  "  What  right  —  ! "  he  began, 
and  checked  abruptly.  The  blood  darkened  his  lean  cheeks. 

"Mrs.  Whitaker  gave  me  to  understand  that  you  didn't. 
It  wasn't  hard  to  perceive,  everything  considered,  that  your 
motive  was  pure  chivalry  —  Quixotism.  I  should  like  to  go 
to  my  grave  with  anything  half  as  honourable  and  unselfish 
to  my  credit." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Whitaker  muttered  thickly. 

"You  don't,  then?" 

"Love  her?    No." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  Then,  "I  do,"  said  this  ex 
traordinary  man,  meeting  Whitaker's  gaze  openly.  "I  do," 
he  repeated,  flushing  in  his  turn,  "but  .  .  .  hopelessly  .  .  . 
However,  that  was  the  third  reason,"  he  pursued  in  a  more 
level  voice  —  "  I  thought  you  ought  to  know  about  it  — 
that  induced  me  to  keep  Sara  Law's  secret.  ...  I  loved 
her  from  the  day  I  found  her.  She  has  never  looked  twice  at 
me.  .  .  .  But  that's  why  I  never  lost  interest." 

"You  mean,"  Whitaker  took  him  up  diffidently  —  "you 
continued  to  —  ah  —  ?" 


104     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  Court  her  —  as  we  say  ?  No."  Ember's  shoulders, 
lifting,  emphasized  the  disclaimer.  "  I'm  no  fool :  I  mean  I'm 
able  to  recognize  a  hopeless  case  when  it's  as  intimate  to  me 
as  mine  was  —  and  is.  Doubtless  Mrs.  Whitaker  under 
stands  —  if  she  hasn't  forgotten  me  by  this  time  —  but,  if  so, 
wholly  through  intuition.  I  have  had  the  sense  not  to  invite 
the  thunderbolt.  I've  sat  quietly  in  the  background,  watch 
ing  her  work  out  her  destiny  —  feeling  a  good  deal  like  a  god 
in  the  machine.  She  doesn't  know  it,  unless  Max  told  her 
against  my  wish ;  but  it  was  I  who  induced  him  to  take  her 
from  the  ranks  of  a  provincial  stock  company  and  bring  her 
before  the  public,  four  years  ago,  as  Joan  Thursday.  Since 
then  her  destiny  has  been  rather  too  big  a  thing  for  me  to 
tamper  with ;  but  I've  watched  and  wondered,  sensing  forces 
at  work  about  her  of  which  even  she  was  unsuspicious." 

"  What  in  blazes  do  you  mean  ? "  Whitaker  demanded, 
mystified. 

"  Did  it  strike  you  to  wonder  at  the  extraordinary  mob  her 
farewell  performance  attracted  to-night  —  the  rabble  that 
packed  the  street,  though  quite  hopeless  of  even  seeing  the 
inside  of  the  theatre  ?  " 

"  Why  —  yes.  It  struck  me  as  rather  unusual.  But  then, 
Max  had  done  nothing  but  tell  me  of  her  tremendous  popu 
larity." 

"  That  alone,  great  as  it  is,  wouldn't  have  brought  so  many 
people  together  to  stare  at  the  outside  of  a  theatre.  The 
magnet  was  something  stronger  —  the  morbid  curiosity  of 
New  York.  Those  people  were  waiting,  thrilled  with  ex 
pectancy,  on  tiptoe  for  —  what  do  you  think  ?" 


A     HISTORY  105 

"I  shall  think  you  mad  in  another  moment,  if  you  don't 
explain  yourself,"  Whitaker  told  him  candidly. 
'Ember's  smile  flashed  and  vanished.     "They  were  wait 
ing  for  the  sensation  that  presently  came  to  them :  the  re 
port  of  Drummond's  death." 

"What  the  devil—  !" 

"  Patience !  .  .  .  It  had  been  discounted :  if  something 
of  the  sort  hadn't  happened,  New  York  would  have  gone  to 
bed  disappointed.  The  reason  ?  This  is  the  third  time  it 
has  happened  —  the  same  thing,  practically :  Sara  Law  on 
the  verge  of  leaving  the  stage  to  marry,  a  fatal  accident  in 
tervening.  Did  Max  by  any  chance  mention  the  nickname 
New  York  has  bestowed  on  Sara  Law  ?" 

"Nickname?    No!" 

"They  call  her  'The  Destroying  Angel.'" 

"What  damnable  rot!" 

"Yes;  but  what  damnable  coincidence.  Three  men 
loved  her  —  and  one  by  one  they  died.  And  now  the  fourth. 
Do  you  wonder  .  .  .  ?" 

"Oh,  but  — 'The  Destroying  Angel'—  !"  Whitaker 
cried  indignantly.  "How  can  they  blame  her?" 

"It  isn't  blame  —  it's  superstition.     Listen  .  .  ." 

Ember  bent  forward,  holding  Whitaker's  gaze  with  intent, 
grave  eyes.  "The  first  time,"  he  said  in  a  rapid  undertone, 
"was  a  year  or  so  after  her  triumph  as  Joan  Thursday. 
There  were  then  two  men  openly  infatuated  with  her,  a  boy 
named  Custer,  and  a  man  I  believe  you  knew  —  William 
Hamilton." 

"I  knew  them  both." 


106     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  Custer  was  making  the  pace ;  the  announcement  of  his 
engagement  to  Sara  Law  was  confidently  anticipated.  He 
died  suddenly;  the  coroner's  jury  decided  that  he  had 
misjudged  the  intentions  of  a  loaded  revolver.  People 
whispered  of  suicide,  but  it  didn't  look  quite  like  that  to 
me.  However  .  .  .  Hamilton  stepped  into  his  place. 
Presently  we  heard  that  Sara  Law  was  to  marry  him  and 
leave  the  stage.  Hamilton  had  to  go  abroad  on  business ; 
on  the  return  trip  —  the  wedding  was  set  for  the  day  after 
he  landed  here  —  he  disappeared,  no  one  knew  how.  Pre 
sumably  he  fell  overboard  by  accident  one  night ;  sane  men 
with  everything  in  the  world  to  live  for  do  such  things, 
you  know  —  according  to  the  newspapers." 

"I  understand  you.     Please  go  on." 

"Approximately  eighteen  months  later  a  man  named 
Thurston  —  Mitchell  Thurston  —  was  considered  a  danger 
ous  aspirant  for  the  hand  of  Sara  Law.  He  was  exceed 
ingly  well  fixed  in  a  money  way  —  a  sort  of  dilettantish 
architect,  with  offices  in  the  Metropolitan  Tower.  One  day 
at  high  noon  he  left  his  desk  to  go  to  lunch  at  Martin's; 
crossing  Madison  Square,  he  suddenly  fell  dead,  with  a  bul 
let  in  his  brain.  It  was  a  rifle  bullet,  but  though  the  square 
was  crowded,  no  one  had  heard  the  report  of  the  shot,  and 
no  one  was  seen  carrying  a  rifle.  The  conclusion  was  that 
he  had  been  shot  down  by  somebody  using  a  gun  with  a 
Maxim  silencer,  from  a  window  on  the  south  side  of  "the 
square.  There  were  no  clues." 

"And  now  Drummond  !"  Whitaker  exclaimed  in  horror. 
"Poor  fellow  !  Poor  woman  !" 


A     HISTORY  107 

A  slightly  sardonic  expression  modified  the  lines  of  Em 
ber's  mouth.  "So  far  as  Mrs.  Whitaker  is  concerned," 
he  said  with  the  somewhat  pedantic  mode  of  speech  which 
Whitaker  was  to  learn  to  associate  with  his  moments  of 
most  serious  concentration  —  "I  echo  the  sentiment.  But 
let  us  suspend  judgment  on  Drummond's  case  until  we  know 
more.  It  is  not  as  yet  an  established  fact  that  he  is  dead." 

"You  mean  there's  hope  —  ?" 

"There's  doubt,"  Ember  corrected  acidly — "doubt,  at 
least,  in  my  mind.  You  see,  I  saw  Drummond  in  the  flesh, 
alive  and  vigorous,  a  good  half  hour  after  he  is  reported  to 
have  leaped  to  his  death." 

"Where?" 

"Coming  up  the  stairs  from  the  down-town  Subway 
station  in  front  of  the  Park  Avenue  Hotel.  He  wore  a  hat 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes  and  an  old  overcoat  buttoned  tight 
up  to  his  chin.  He  was  carrying  a  satchel  bearing  the  in 
itials  C.  S.  D.,  but  was  otherwise  pretty  thoroughly  disguised, 
and,  I  fancied,  anxious  enough  to  escape  recognition." 

"You're  positive  about  this  ?" 

"My  dear  man,"  said  Ember  with  an  air,  "I  saw  his  ear 
distinctly." 

"His  ear!" 

"I  never  forget  an  ear ;  I've  made  a  special  study  of  them. 
They're  the  last  parts  of  the  human  anatomy  that  criminals 
ever  think  to  disguise ;  and,  to  the  trained  eye,  as  infallible 
a  means  of  identification  —  nearly  —  as  thumb-prints.  The 
man  I  saw  coming  up  from  the  Subway  kept  as  much  as 
possible  away  from  the  light;  he  had  successfully  hidden 


108     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

most  of  his  face;  but  he  wore  the  inches,  the  hand-bag, 
and  the  ear  of  Carter  S.  Drummond.  I  don't  think  I  can 
be  mistaken." 

"  Did  you  stop  him  —  speak  to  him  ?  " 

Ember  shook  his  head.  "No.  I  doubt  if  he  would  have 
remembered  me.  Our  acquaintance  has  been  of  the  slightest, 
limited  to  a  couple  of  meetings.  Besides,  I  was  in  a  hurry 
to  get  to  the  theatre,  and  at  that  time  had  heard  nothing 
of  this  reputed  suicide." 

"Which  way  did  he  go?" 

"Toward  the  Pennsylvania  station,  I  fancy;  that  is, 
he  turned  west  through  Thirty-third  Street.  I  didn't 
follow  —  I  was  getting  into  a  taxi  when  I  caught  sight  of 
him." 

"  But  what  did  you  think  to  see  him  disguised  ?  Didn't 
it  strike  you  as  curious  ?  " 

"Very,"  said  Ember  dryly.  "At  the  same  time,  it  was 
none  of  my  affair  —  then.  Nor  did  it  present  itself  to  me 
as  a  matter  worth  meddling  with  until,  later,  my  suspi 
cions  were  aroused  by  the  scene  in  the  theatre  —  obviously 
the  result  of  your  appearance  there  —  and  still  later,  when 
I  heard  the  suicide  report." 

"But  —  good  Lord!"  Whitaker  passed  a  hand  across 
his  dazed  eyes.  "What  can  it  mean?  Why  should  he  do 
this  thing?" 

"There  are  several  possible  explanations.  .  .  .  How 
long  has  Drummond  known  that  you  were  alive?" 

"Since  noon  to-day." 

"Not  before?" 


A    HISTORY  109 

_J*  Not  to  my  knowledge." 

"  Still,  it's  possible.  If  he  has  a  sensitive  nature  —  I 
think  he  hasn't  —  the  shame  of  being  found  out,  caught 
trying  to  marry  your  wife  when  he  had  positive  knowledge 
you  still  lived,  may  have  driven  him  to  drop  out  of  sight. 
Again  .  .  .  May  I  ask,  what  was  the  extent  of  your  prop 
erty  in  his  trust?" 

"A  couple  of  hundred-thousands." 

"And  he  believed  you  dead  and  was  unable  to  find  your 
widow  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  that!"  Whitaker  expostulated. 

"Nor  do  I.  We're  merely  considering  possible  explana 
tions.  There's  a  third  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"  He  may  have  received  a  strong  hint  that  he  was  nominated 
for  the  fate  that  overtook  young  Custer,  Hamilton  and 
Thurston;  and  so  planned  to  give  his  disappearance  the 
colour  of  a  similar  end." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  think  there  was  any  method 
in  that  train  of  tragedies?" 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  superstitious,  my  dear  man.  I 
don't  for  an  instant  believe,  as  some  people  claim  to,  that 
Sara  Law  is  a  destroying  angel,  hounded  by  a  tragic  fate : 
that  her  love  is  equivalent  to  the  death  warrant  of  the  man 
who  wins  it." 

"But  what  do  you  think,  then  ?" 

"I  think,"  said  Ember,  slowly,  his  gaze  on  the  table, 
"that  some  one  with  a  very  strong  interest  in  keeping  the 
young  woman  single  —  and  on  the  stage  —  " 


110     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Max!    Impossible!" 

Ember  shrugged.  "In  human  nature,  no  madness  is 
impossible.  There's  not  a  shred  of  evidence  against  Jules 
Max.  And  yet  —  he's  a  gambler.  All  theatrical  mana 
gers  are,  of  course ;  but  Max  is  a  card-fiend.  The  tale  of  his 
plunging  runs  like  wildfire  up  and  down  Broadway,  day  by 
day.  A  dozen  times  he's  been  on  the  verge  of  ruin,  yet 
always  he  has  had  Sara  Law  to  rely  upon;  always  he's 
been  able  to  fall  back  upon  that  asset,  sure  that  her  popu 
larity  would  stave  off  bankruptcy.  And  he's  superstitious : 
he  believes  she  is  his  mascot.  I  don't  accuse  him  —  I 
suspect  him,  knowing  him  to  be  capable  of  many  weird 
extravagances.  .  .  .  Furthermore,  it's  a  fact  that  Max 
was  a  fellow-passenger  with  Billy  Hamilton  when  the  latter 
disappeared  in  mid-ocean." 

Ember  paused  and  sat  up,  preparatory  to  rising.  "All 
of  which,"  he  concluded,  "explains  why  I  have  trespassed 
upon  your  patience  and  your  privacy.  It  seemed  only 
right  that  you  should  get  the  straight,  undistorted  story 
from  an  unprejudiced  onlooker.  May  I  venture  to  add  a 
word  of  advice  ?  " 

"By  all  means." 

"Have  you  told  Max  of  your  relations  with  Sara  Law  ?" 

"No." 

"Or  anybody  else?" 

"No." 

"Then  keep  the  truth  to  yourself — at  least  until  this 
coil  is  straightened  out." 

Ember  got  up.     "Good  night,"  he  said  pleasantly. 


A    HISTORY  111 

Whitaker  took  his  hand,  staring.  "Good  night,"  he 
_echoed  blankly.  "  But  —  I  say  —  why  keep  it  quiet  ?  " 

Ember,  turning  to  go,  paused,  his  glance  quietly  quizzical. 
"You  don't  mean  to  claim  your  wife?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  expect  to  offer  no  defence  to  her  action 
for  divorce." 

"Grounds  of  desertion?" 

"I  presume  so." 

"Just  the  same,  keep  it  as  quiet  as  possible  until  the  di 
vorce  is  granted.  If  you  live  till  then  .  .  .  you  may  pos- 
siblv  continue  to  live  thereafter." 


IX 

ENTR'ACTE 

DAWN  of  Sunday  found  Whitaker  still  awake.  Alone  in 
his  uncheerful  hotel  bedchamber,  his  chair  tilted  back  against 
the  wall,  he  sat  smoking  and  thinking*,  reviewing  again  and 
again  every  consideration  growing  out  of  his  matrimonial 
entanglement. 

He  turned  in  at  length  to  the  dreamless  slumbers  of  mental 
exhaustion. 

The  morning  introduced  him  to  a  world  of  newspapers  gone 
mad  and  garrulous  with  accounts  of  the  sensation  of  the 
preceding  night.  What  they  told  him  only  confirmed  the 
history  of  his  wife's  career  as  detailed  by  the  gratuitous 
Mr.  Ember.  There  was,  however,  no  suggestion  in  any  report 
that  Drummond  had  not  in  fact  committed  suicide  —  this, 
despite  the  total  disappearance  of  the  hypothetical  corpse. 
No  doubts  seemed  to  have  arisen  from  the  circumstance  that 
there  had  been,  apparently,  but  a  single  witness  of  the  felo 
de  se.  A  man,  breathless  with  excitement,  had  run  up  to 
the  nearest  policeman  with  word  of  what  he  claimed  to 
have  seen.  In  the  subsequent  confusion  he  had  vanished. 
And  so  thoroughly,  it  seemed,  had  the  mind  of  New  York 
been  prepared  for  some  fatal  accident  to  this  latest  lover  of 
Sara  Law  that  no  one  dreamed  of  questioning  the  authen 
ticity  of  the  report. 

112 


ENTR'ACTE  113 

Several  sensational  sheets  ran  exhaustive  resumes,  elabo 
rately  illustrated,  of  the  public  life  of  "The  Destroying 
Angel." 

Some  remarked  the  fact  that  little  or  nothing  was  known 
of  the  history  of  Sara  Law  prior  to  her  appearance,  under 
the  management  of  Jules  Max,  as  Joan  Thursday. 

Whitaker  learned  that  she  had  refused  herself  to  the 
reporters  who  besieged  her  residence. 

It  seemed  to  be  an  unanimous  assumption  that  the  news 
of  Drummond's  suicide  had  in  some  manner  been  conveyed 
to  the  woman  while  on  the  stage. 

No  paper  mentioned  the  name  of  Whitaker.  .  .  . 

In  the  course  of  the  forenoon  a  note  for  Whitaker  was 
delivered  at  the  hotel. 

The  heavy  sheet  of  white  paper,  stamped  with  the  address 
in  Fifty-seventh  Street,  bore  this  message  in  a  strong  but 
nervous  hand : 

"I  rely  upon  the  generosity  you  promise  me.  This  marriage  of 
ours,  that  is  no  marriage,  must  be  dissolved.  Please  let  my  attor 
neys  —  Landers,  Grimshaw  &  Clark,  149  Broadway  —  know  when 
and  where  you  will  accept  service.  Forgive  me  if  I  seem  un 
grateful  and  unfeeling.  I  am  hardly  myself.  And  please  do  not 
try  to  see  me  now.  Some  day  I  hope  to  see  and  thank  you ;  to-day  — 
it's  impossible.  I  am  going  away  to  forget,  if  I  can. 

"MARY  LADISLAS  WHITAKER." 

Before  nightfall  Whitaker  had  satisfied  himself  that  his 
wife  had,  in  truth,  left  her  town  house.  The  servants  there 
informed  all  who  inquired  that  they  had  been  told  to  re 
port  and  to  forward  all  letters  to  Messrs.  Landers,  Grimshaw 
&  Clark. 


114     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Whitaker  promptly  notified  those  attorneys  that  he  was 
ready  to  be  served  at  their  convenience.  He  further  de 
sired  them  to  inform  their  client  that  her  suit  would  be 
uncontested.  But  beyond  their  brief  and  business-like 
acknowledgment,  he  heard  nothing  more  of  the  action  for 
divorce. 

He  sought  Max  several  times  without  success.  When 
at  length  run  to  ground  in  the  roulette  room  of  a  Forty- 
fourth  Street  gambling-house,  the  manager  was  grimly  reti 
cent.  He  professed  complete  ignorance  of  his  star's  welfare 
and  whereabouts.  He  advised  Whitaker  to  consult  the 
newspapers,  if  his  interest  \vas  so  insatiable. 

Warned  by  the  manager's  truculent  and  suspicious  tone 
that  his  secret  was,  after  all,  buried  no  more  than  skin- 
deep,  Whitaker  dissembled  artfully  his  anxiety,  and  aban 
doned  Max  to  his  pet  vices. 

The  newspapers  reported  Sara  Law  as  being  in  retirement 
in  several  widely  separated  sections  of  the  country.  She 
was  also  said  to  have  gone  abroad,  sailing  incognito  by  a 
second-class  steamship  from  Philadelphia. 

The  nine-days'  wonder  disintegrated  naturally.  The 
sobriquet  of  "The  Destroying  Angel"  disappeared  from  the 
newspaper  scare-heads.  So  also  the  name  of  Drummond. 
Hugh  Morten  Whitaker,  the  dead  man  come  to  life,  occupied 
public  interest  for  a  brief  half-day.  By  the  time  that  the 
executors  of  Carter  Drummond  and  the  attorneys  repre 
senting  his  clients  began  to  make  sense  of  his  estate  and 
interests,  their  discoveries  failed  to  command  newspaper 
space. 


ENTR'ACTE  115 

This  phenomenon  was  chiefly  due  to  the  fact  that  Whitaker 
didn't  care  to  raise  an  outcry  about  his  loss.  Ember,  it 
seemed,  had  guessed  shrewdly  :  Drummond  had  appropriated 
to  his  own  uses  every  dollar  of  the  small  fortune  left  in  his 
care  by  his  erstwhile  partner.  No  other  client  of  his  had 
suffered,  however.  His  peculations  had  been  confined 
wholly  to  the  one  quarter  whence  he  had  had  every  reason  to 
anticipate  neither  protest  nor  exposure.  In  Whitaker's 
too-magnanimous  opinion,  the  man  had  not  been  so  much  a 
thief  as  one  who  yielded  to  the  temptation  to  convert  to 
his  own  needs  and  uses  a  property  against  which,  it  appeared, 
no  other  living  being  cared  to  enter  a  claim. 

Whether  or  not  he  had  ever  learned  or  guessed  that  Sara 
Law  was  the  wife  of  Whitaker,  remained  problematic.  WThit- 
aker  inclined  to  believe  that  Drummond  had  known  - 
that  he  had  learned  the  truth  from  the  lips  of  his  betrothed 
wife.  But  this  could  not  be  determined  save  through  her. 
And  she  kept  close  hidden. 

The  monetary  loss  was  an  inconsiderable  thing  to  a  man 
with  an  interest  in  mines  in  the  Owen  Stanley  country. 
He  said  nothing.  Drummond's  name  remained  untarnished, 
save  in  the  knowledge  of  a  few. 

Of  these,  Martin  Ember  was  one.  WTiitaker  made  a 
point  of  hunting  him  up.  The  retired  detective  received 
confirmation  of  his  surmise  without  any  amazement. 

"You  still  believe  that  he's  alive?" 

"Implicitly,"  Ember  asserted  with  conviction. 

"Could  you  find  him,  if  necessary?" 

"Within  a  day,  I  think.     Do  you  wish  me  to?" 


"I  don't  know  .  .  ." 

Ember  permitted  Whitaker  to  consider  the  matter  in  si 
lence  for  some  moments.  Then,  "Do  you  want  advice?" 
he  inquired. 

"Well?" 

"  Hunt  him  down  and  put  him  behind  the  bars,"  said  Ember 
instantly. 

"What's  the  good  of  that?" 

"Your  personal  safety." 

"How?" 

"Don't  you  suppose  he  misses  all  he's  been  accustomed 
to  ?  —  living  as  he  does  in  constant  terror  of  being  dis 
covered,  the  life  of  a  hunted  thing,  one  of  the  underworld,  an 
enemy  of  society !  Don't  you  suppose  he'd  be  glad  to  regain  all 
he's  lost  —  business,  social  position,  the  esteem  of  his  friends, 
the  love  of  a  woman  who  will  soon  be  free  to  marry  him  ?" 

"Well?" 

"With  you  out  of  the  way,  he  could  come  back  without 
fear." 

"Oh — preposterous !" 

"7*  it?" 

"Drummond's  not  that  sort.  He's  weak,  perhaps,  but 
no  criminal." 

"  A  criminal  is  the  creature  of  a  warped  judgment.  There'd 
be  no  criminals  if  every  one  were  able  to  attain  his  desires 
within  the  law.  Misfortunes  breed  weird  maggots  in  a 
man's  brain.  Drummond's  dragging  out  a  wretched  exist 
ence  in  a  world  of  false  perspectives;  he's  not  to  be 
blamed  if  he  presently  begins  to  see  things  as  they  are  not." 


ENTR'ACTE  117 

Ember  permitted  another  pause  to  lengthen,  unbroken 
by  Whitaker. 

"Shall  I  try  to  find  him  for  you?"  he  asked  quietly,  in 
the  end. 

"No,"  Whitaker  decided.  "No.  Let  him  alone — poor 
devil!" 

Ember  disclaimed  further  responsibility  with  a  movement 
of  his  shoulders. 

"  But  my  wife  ?    Could  you  find  her  as  readily  ?  " 

"  Possibly,"  the  detective  admitted  cautiously.  "  But  I 
don't  mean  to." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  don't  want  me  to.     Do  you?" 

"No  .  .  ." 

"  But  principally  because  she  doesn't  want  me  to.  Other 
wise  she'd  let  you  know  where  to  look  for  her." 

"True." 

These  fragments  of  dialogue  are  from  a  conversation  that 
took  place  in  the  month  of  June,  nearly  seven  weeks  after 
the  farewell  performance  at  the  Theatre  Max.  Interim, 
Whitaker  had  quietly  resumed  his  place  in  the  life  of  the 
town,  regaining  old  friendships,  renewing  old  associations. 
Save  for  the  fact  that  he  pursued  no  gainful  occupation, 
all  with  him  was  much  as  it  had  been :  as  if  the  intervening 
six  years  of  exile  had  been  blotted  out,  or  had  never  been. 
The  mild  excitement  occasioned  by  his  reappearance  had 
already  subsided;  he  was  again  an  accepted  and  substan 
tial  factor  in  the  society  of  his  kind. 

He  had  abandoned  all  thought  of  returning  to  New  Guinea, 


118     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

entertained,  indeed,  no  inclination  whatever  to  do  so.  The 
life  he  now  led  was  more  or  less  normal  to  him.  Yet  he  was 
sensible  of  a  growing  restlessness.  He  had  nothing  to  busy 
himself  with  :  this  was  the  unguessed  secret  of  his  unsettled 
temper.  And  the  approach  of  hot  weather  was  narrowing 
the  circle  of  his  acquaintances.  People  were  leaving  town 
daily,  for  Europe,  for  the  seashore,  for  the  mountains. 

He  began  to  receive  invitations  for  week-ends  and  longer 
visits  out  of  town.  A  few  of  the  former  he  accepted  —  al 
ways,  however,  returning  to  New  York  with  a  sense  of 
necessity  strong  upon  his  spirit.  Something  held  him  there, 
some  influence  elusive  of  analysis.  He  was  discontented, 
but  felt  that  he  could  not  find  content  elsewhere. 

Gradually  he  began  to  know  more  hours  of  loneliness  than 
suited  his  tastes.  His  rooms  —  the  old  rooms  over 
looking  Bryant  Park,  regained  and  refurnished  much  as 
they  had  been  six  years  before  —  knew  his  solitary  pres 
ence  through  many  a  long  evening.  July  came  with  blis 
tering  breath,  and  he  took  to  the  Adirondacks,  meaning  to 
be  gone  a  month.  Within  ten  days  he  was  home  again, 
drawn  back  irresistibly  by  that  strange  insatiable  craving 
of  unformulated  desire.  Town  bored  him,  yet  he  could  not 
seem  to  rest  away  from  it. 

He  wandered  in  and  out,  up  and  down,  an  unquiet,  ir 
resolute  soul,  tremendously  perplexed.  .  .  . 

There  came  one  dark  and  sultry  night,  heavy  beneath 
skies  overcast,  in  August.  Whitaker  left  a  roof-garden  in 
the  middle  of  a  stupid  performance,  and  walked  the  streets 
till  long  after  midnight,  courting  the  fatigue  that  alone 


ENTR'ACTE  119 

could  bestow  untroubled  sleep.  On  his  return,  a  sleepy 
hall-boy  with  a  wilted  collar  ran  the  elevator  up  to  his  tenth- 
floor  landing  and,  leaving  him  fumbling  at  the  lock  of  his 
door,  dropped  clankingly  out  of  sight.  Whitaker  entered  and 
shut  himself  in  with  the  pitch-blackness  of  his  private  hall. 

He  groped  along  the  wall  for  the  electric  switch,  and  found 
only  the  shank  of  it  —  the  hard-rubber  button  having  dis 
appeared.  And  then,  while  still  he  was  trying  to  think  how 
this  could  have  happened,  he  sustained  a  murderous  assault. 

A  miscalculation  on  the  part  of  the  marauder  alone  saved 
him.  The  black-jack  (or  whatever  the  weapon  was)  miss 
ing  his  head  by  the  narrowest  shave,  descended  upon  his 
left  shoulder  with  numbing  force.  Notwithstanding  his 
pain  and  surprise,  Whitaker  rallied  and  grappled,  thus 
escaping  a  second  and  possibly  more  deadly  blow. 

But  his  shoulder  was  almost  useless,  and  the  pain  of  it 
began  to  sicken  him,  while  the  man  in  his  grip  fought  like 
a  devil  unchained.  He  found  himself  wedged  back  into  a 
corner,  brutal  fingers  digging  deep  into  the  flesh  round  his 
windpipe.  He  fought  desperately  to  escape  strangulation. 
Eventually  he  struggled  out  of  the  corner  and  gave  ground 
through  the  doorway  into  his  sitting-room. 

For  some  minutes  the  night  in  that  quiet  room,  high 
above  the  city,  was  rendered  wild  and  violent  with  the  crashes 
of  overthrown  furniture  and  the  thud  and  thump  of  strug 
gling  bodies.  Then  by  some  accident  little  short  of  miracu 
lous,  Whitaker  broke  free  and  plunged  across  the  room  in 
what  he  imagined  to  be  the  direction  of  a  dresser  in  which 
he  kept  a  revolver.  His  foot  slipped  on  the  hardwood 


120     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

floor,  the  ankle  twisted,  and  he  fell  awkwardly,  striking  his 
head  against  a  table-leg  with  such  force  that  he  lay  half- 
stunned.  An  instant  later  his  assailant  emptied  five  cham 
bers  of  a  revolver  into  the  darkness  about  him,  and  then, 
alarmed  by  a  racket  of  pounding  on  the  hall  door,  fled 
successfully  by  way  of  the  fire-escape  to  adjoining  roofs 
and  neighbouring  back-yards. 

By  the  time  Whitaker  was  able  to  pull  himself  together 
and  hobble  to  the  door,  a  brace  of  intelligent  policemen 
who  had  been  summoned  by  the  hall-boy  were  threatening 
to  break  it  down.  Admitted,  they  took  his  safety  into  their 
care  and,  simultaneously,  the  revolver  which  he  incau 
tiously  admitted  possessing.  Later  they  departed,  ob 
viously  disgruntled  by  the  unprofessional  conduct  of  the 
"crook"  who  had  left  no  "  clues,"  with  a  warning  to  the  house 
holder  that  he  might  expect  to  be  summoned  to  court,  as 
soon  as  he  was  able  to  move,  to  answer  for  the  crime  of 
keeping  a  weapon  of  defence. 

Whitaker  took  to  his  bed  in  company  with  a  black  tem 
per  and  the  aroma  of  arnica. 

He  entertained,  the  next  day,  several  persons :  reporters ; 
a  physician;  a  futile,  superfluous,  unornamental  creature 
misleadingly  designated  a  plain-clothes  man;  finally  his 
friend  (by  now  their  acquaintance  had  warmed  to  real  friend 
ship)  Ember. 

The  retired  investigator  found  Whitaker  getting  into  his 
clothes :  a  ceremony  distinguished  by  some  profanity  and 
numerous  grunts. 

"Afternoon,"  he  said,  taking  a  chair  and  surveying  the 


ENTR'ACTE 

sufferer  with  slightly  masked  amusement.  "Having  a 
^goodtime?" 

"You  go  to  thunder!"  said  Whitaker  in  disgust. 

"Glad  to  see  you're  not  hurt  much,"  pursued  the  other, 
unabashed. 

Whitaker  withered  him  with  a  glare.  "I  suppose  it's 
nothing  to  have  a  shoulder  and  arm  black-and-blue  to  the 
elbow  !  a  bump  on  the  side  of  my  head  as  big  as  a  hard- 
boiled  egg  !  a  bruised  throat  and  an  ankle  next  door  to 
sprained!  Oh,  no  —  I'm  not  much  hurt!" 

"You're  lucky  to  be  alive,"  observed  Ember,  exasperat- 
ingly  philosophic. 

"  A  lot  you  know  about  it ! " 

"I'm  a  canny  little  guesser,"  Ember  admitted  modestly. 

"Where'd  you  get  your  information,  then?" 

Ember  waved  a  non-committal  hand.  "I  hear 
things  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  yes  —  you  know  a  iot.  I  suppose  you  could  lay  this 
thug  by  the  heels  in  a  brace  of  shakes  ? " 

"Just  about,"  Ember  admitted  placidly.  "I  wouldn't 
mind  trying." 

"Then  why  don't  you?"  Whitaker  demanded  heatedly. 

"I  had  a  notion  you  wouldn't  want  me  to." 

Whitaker  stared  aggressively.  "You  mean  .  .  .  Drum- 
mond?" 

The  answer  was  a  nod. 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"You'll  at  all  events  do  me  the  credit  to  recall  that  I 
warned  you  two  months  ago." 


122     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"All  the  same,  I  don't  believe  it  was  Drummond." 

"You  haven't  missed  any  property,  I  believe?" 

"No." 

"So  presumably  the  fellow  had  some  motive  other  than 
a  desire  to  thieve.  Besides,  if  he'd  been  on  the  loot  he 
might  much  more  easily  have  tried  one  of  the  lower  floors  — 
and  more  sensibly." 

"It  would  seem  so,"  Whitaker  admitted  sulkily. 

"  And  that  missing  switch-button  - 

"What  do  you  know  about  that?" 

"My  sources  of  information  ...  It  strikes  me  that  a 
man  who  took  that  much  trouble  to  prevent  your  turn 
ing  on  the  light  must  have  been  rather  anxious  to  avoid 
recognition.  I  shed  the  inference  for  its  intrinsic  worth, 
merely." 

"Well  .  .  ."    Whitaker  temporized. 

"  And  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean  to  do." 

"About  what?" 

"With  the  understanding  that  you're  content  to  leave 
the  case  of  burglary  and  assault  to  the  mercies  of  the  po 
lice  :  what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  yourself  ?  " 

''I  don't  know  — hadn't  thought." 

"Unless  you're  hell-bent  on  sticking  around  here  to  get 
your  head  bashed  in  —  I  venture  respectfully  to  suggest 
that  you  consign  yourself  to  my  competent  care." 

"Meaning—  ?" 

"I've  got  a  bungalow  down  on  Long  Island  —  a  one- 
horse  sort  of  a  bachelor  affair  —  and  I'm  going  to  run  down 
there  this  evening  and  stay  awhile.  There's  quiet,  no  so- 


ENTR'ACTE  123 

ciety  and  good  swimming.  Will  you  come  along  and  be 
•*•  my  guest  until  you  grow  tired  of  it  ?  " 

Whitaker  looked  his  prospective  host  over  with  a  calcu 
lating,  suspicious  eye. 

"  I  ought  to  be  able  to  take  care  of  myself,"  he  grumbled 
childishly. 

"Granted." 

"But  I've  a  great  mind  to  take  you  up." 

"Sensibly  spoken.  Can  you  be  ready  by  three?  I'll 
call  with  the  car  then,  if  you  can." 

"Done  with  you  !"  declared  Whitaker  with  a  strong  sense 
of  relief. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  far  less  incredulous  of  Ember's 
theory  than  he  chose  to  admit. 


THE   WINDOW 

THOUGH  they  left  New  York  not  long  after  three  in  the 
afternoon,  twilight  was  fast  ebbing  into  night  when  the 
motor-car  —  the  owner  driving,  Whitaker  invalided  to  the 
lonely  grandeur  of  the  tonneau  —  swept  up  from  a  long  waste 
of  semi-wooded  countryside,  sparsely  populated,  bumped 
over  railroad  tracks,  purred  softly  at  sedate  pace  through 
the  single  street  of  a  drowsy  village,  and  then  struck  away 
from  the  main  country  road. 

Once  clear  of  the  village  bounds,  as  if  assured  of  an  un 
obstructed  way,  Ember  gave  the  motor  its  head;  with  a 
long,  keen  whine  of  delight  it  took  the  bit  between  its  teeth 
and  flung  away  like  a  thoroughbred  romping  down  the  home 
stretch.  Its  headlights  clove  a  path  through  darkness, 
like  a  splendid  sword  ;  a  pale  shining  ribbon  of  road  seemed 
to  run  to  the  wheels  as  if  eager  to  be  devoured ;  on  either 
hand  woodlands  and  desolate  clearings  blurred  into  dark 
and  rushing  walls ;  the  wind  buffeted  the  faces  of  the  travel 
lers  like  a  soft  and  tender  hand,  seeking  vainly  if  with  all 
its  strength  to  withstand  their  impetus  :  only  the  wonderful 
wilderness  of  stars  remained  imperturbable. 

Whitaker,  braced  against  the  jolting,  snatched  begrudged 
mouthfuls  of  air  strong  of  the  sea.  From  time  to  time  he 
caught  fugitive  glimpses  of  what  seemed  to  be  water,  far  in 

124 


THE    WINDOW  125 

the  distances  to  the  right.  He  had  no  very  definite  idea  of 
-4heir  whereabouts,  having  neglected  through  sheer  in 
difference  to  question  Ember,  but  he  knew  that  they  were 
drawing  minute  by  minute  closer  to  the  Atlantic.  And 
the  knowledge  was  soothing  to  the  unquiet  of  his  soul,  who 
loved  the  sea.  He  dreamed  vaguely,  with  yearning,  of 
wave-swept  shores  and  their  sonorous  silences. 

After  some  time  the  car  slowed  to  a  palpitant  pause  at  a 
spot  where  the  road  was  bordered  on  one  hand  by  a  woods, 
on  the  other  by  meadow-lands  running  down  to  an  arm  of 
a  bay,  on  whose  gently  undulant  surface  the  flame-tipped 
finger  of  a  distant  lighthouse  drew  an  undulant  path  of 
radiance. 

Ember  jumped  out  to  open  a  barred  gate,  then  returning 
swung  the  car  into  a  clear  but  narrow  woodland  road. 
"Mine  own  domain,"  he  informed  Whitakerwith  a  laugh, 
as  he  stopped  a  second  time  to  go  back  and  close  the  gate. 
"Now  we're  shut  of  the  world,  entirely." 

The  car  crawled  cautiously  on,  following  a  path  that, 
in  the  searching  glare  of  headlights,  showed  as  two  parallel 
tracks  of  white  set  apart  by  a  strip  of  livid  green  and  walled 
in  by  a  dense  tangle  of  scrub-oak  and  pine  and  second 
growth.  Underbrush  rasped  and  rattled  against  the  guards. 
Outside  the  lighted  way  arose  strange  sounds  audible 
above  even  the  purring  of  the  motor — -vast  mysterious 
whisperings  and  rustlings :  stealthy  and  murmurous  protests 
against  this  startling  trespass. 

Whitaker  bent  forward,  inquiring :    "Where  are  we  ?" 

"Almost  there.     Patience." 


126     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Whitaker  sat  back  again,  content  to  await  enlighten 
ment  at  the  pleasure  of  his  host.  Really,  he  didn't  much 
care  where  they  were :  the  sense  of  isolation,  strong  upon 
his  spirit,  numbed  all  his  curiosity. 

He  reckoned  idly  that  they  must  have  threaded  a  good 
two  miles  of  woodland,  when  at  length  the  car  emerged 
upon  a  clearing  and  immediately  turned  aside  to  the  open 
doorway  of  a  miniature  garage. 

For  the  first  time  in  five  hours  he  was  aware  of  the 
hush  of  Nature ;  the  motor's  song  was  ended  for  the  night. 

The  clearing  seemed  no  more  than  a  fair  two  acres  in 
extent;  the  forest  hemmed  it  in  on  three  sides;  on  the 
fourth  lay  water.  Nor  was  it  an  unqualified  clearing;  a 
hundred  yards  distant  the  lighted  windows  of  a  one-story 
structure  shone  pleasantly  through  a  scattering  plantation 
of  pine. 

Linking  arms  the  better  to  guide  his  guest,  Ember  drew 
him  toward  the  lights. 

"Bungalow,"  he  explained,  sententious,  flourishing  his 
free  hand  :  "hermitage  —  retreat." 

"Paradise,"  Whitaker  summed  up,  in  the  same  humour. 

"Still-water  swimming  at  the  front  door;  surf  bathing 
on  the  beach  across  the  bay;  sailing,  if  you  care  for  it; 
fishing,  if  you  don't  care  what  you  say ;  all  sorts  of  civilized 
loafing  and  no  society  except  our  own." 

"No  women?" 

"Not  a  petticoat." 

"  No  neighbours  ?  " 

"Oh"  —  Ember  motioned  to  his  left  as  they  faced  the 


THE    WINDOW  127 

water  —  "  there's  a  married  establishment  over  there 
"Somewhere,  but  we  don't  bother  one  another.  Fellow 
by  the  name  of  Fiske.  I  understand  the  place  is  shut  up  — 
Fiske  not  coming  down  this  year." 

"So  much  the  better.  I've  been  wanting  just  this  all 
summer,  without  realizing  it." 

"Welcome,  then,  to  Half-a-loaf  Lodge  !" 

Skirting  the  edges  of  the  plantation,  they  had  come 
round  to  the  front  of  the  house.  An  open  door,  warm  with 
light,  welcomed  them.  They  entered  a  long  and  deep  liv 
ing-room  with  walls  of  peeled  logs  and,  at  one  end,  a  stone 
fireplace  wherein  a  wood  fire  blazed  heartily.  Two  score 
candles  in  sconces  furnished  an  illumination  mellow  and 
benign.  At  a  comfortable  distance  from  the  hearth 
stood  a  table  bright  with  linen,  silver  and  crystal  —  covers 
for  two.  The  rear  wall  was  broken  by  three  doors,  in 
one  of  which  a  rotund  Chinaman  beamed  oleaginously. 
Ember  hailed  him  by  the  title  of  Sum  Fat,  explaining  that 
it  wasn't  his  name,  but  claiming  for  it  the  virtue  of  ex 
quisite  felicity. 

"My  servant  in  town,  here  man-of-all-work ;  I've  had 
him  for  years;  faithful  and  indispensable.  ..." 

Toward  the  end  of  an  excellent  dinner,  Whitaker  caught 
himself  nodding  and  blinking  with  drowsiness.  The  fatigue 
of  their  long  ride,  added  to  the  nervous  strain  and  excite 
ment  of  the  previous  night,  was  proving  more  than  he  had 
strength  to  struggle  against.  Ember  took  laughing  com 
passion  upon  him  and  led  him  forthwith  to  a  bedroom 
furnished  with  the  rigid  simplicity  of  a  summer  camp. 


128     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Once  abed  he  lay  awake  only  long  enough  to  recognize,  in 
the  pulsating  quiet,  the  restless  thunder  of  surf  on  the 
beach  across  the  bay.  Then  he  slept  round  the  clock. 

He  recovered  consciousness  to  lie  luxuriating  in  the 
sensation  of  delicious  and  complete  repose,  and  to  listen 
lazily  to  the  drum  of  raindrops  on  the  low  roof  —  too  lazy, 
indeed,  to  turn  his  head  and  consult  his  watch.  Yet  he 
knew  it  must  be  late  in  the  morning,  for  the  light  was 
broad,  if  gray. 

The  shrill,  imperative  rattle  of  a  telephone  bell  roused 
him  more  thoroughly.  Lifting  on  his  elbow,  he  eyed  his 
watch,  then  hastily  swung  his  legs  out  of  bed;  for  it  was 
nearly  ten  o'clock. 

As  he  dressed  he  could  hear  the  voice  of  Ember  in  the 
living-room  talking  over  the  telephone.  Presently  there 
came  a  tap  at  his  door,  and  his  host  entered. 

"Up,  eh?"  he  said  cheerfully.  "I  was  afraid  I'd  have 
to  wake  you.  You're  surely  a  sincere  young  sleeper.  .  .  . 
I  say!"  His  smile  vanished  beneath  the  clouds  of  an 
impatient  frown.  "This  is  the  devil  of  a  note:  I've  got 
to  leave  you." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"That's  what  I'm  called  upon  to  find  out.  A  friend  of 
mine's  in  a  tight  place,  and  I've  got  to  go  and  help  pull 
him  through.  He  just  called  me  up  —  and  I  can't  refuse. 
D'you  mind  being  left  alone  for  a  day  or  so  ?" 

"Certainly  not  —  only  I'm  sorry." 

"No  more  than  I.  But  I'll  try  to  get  back  to-morrow. 
If  I  don't,  the  next  day  —  or  as  soon  as  I  possibly  can. 


THE    WINDOW  129 

Meanwhile,  please  consider  yourself  lord  and  master  here. 
-Sum  Fat  will  take  good  care  of  you.  Anything  you  want, 
just  ask  him.  Now  I've  got  to  get  into  waterproofs :  it's 
raining  like  all  get-out,  but  I  can't  wait  for  a  let-up." 

By  the  time  Whitaker  was  ready  for  breakfast,  his  host 
had  splashed  off  to  his  motor  car. 

Later,  while  Sum  Fat  crooned  to  himself  over  the  dish-pan 
in  the  kitchen,  Whitaker  explored  his  quarters;  to  begin 
with,  not  in  the  least  disconsolate  to  be  left  alone.  The 
place  had  for  his  imagination  the  zest  of  novelty  and  isolation. 
He  rather  enjoyed  the  sensation  of  complete  dissociation 
from  the  rest  of  the  world,  of  freedom  to  humour  his  idlest 
whim  without  reference  to  the  prejudices  of  any  neighbour. 

Within-doors  there  was  every  comfort  conceivably  to  be 
desired  by  any  other  than  a  sybarite ;  without  —  viewed 
from  the  shelter  of  a  wide  veranda  —  a  vague  world  of 
sweeping  mist  and  driving  rain;  pine  trees  Japanesque 
against  the  mist,  as  if  etched  in  bronze-green  on  frosted 
silver;  a  breadth  of  rough,  hummocky  ground  sloping 
clown  to  the  water's  edge,  with  a  private  landing-stage  and, 
farther  out,  a  courtesying  cat-boat  barely  discernible. 

The  wind,  freshening  and  driving  very  respectable  if 
miniature  rollers  against  the  beach,  came  in  heavy  gusts, 
alternating  with  periods  of  steady,  strong  blowing.  At 
times  the  shining  lances  of  the  rain  seemed  to  drive  almost 
horizontally.  Whitaker  shivered  a  little,  not  unpleasantly, 
and  went  indoors. 

He  poked  his  head  into  the  kitchen.  In  that  im 
maculate  place,  from  which  every  hint  of  breakfast  had 


130     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

disappeared  as  if  by  magic,  Sum  Fat  was  religiously 
cleaning  his  teeth  —  for  the  third  time  that  morning,  to 
Whitaker's  certain  knowledge. 

When  he  had  finished,  Whitaker  put  a  question : 

"  Sum  Fat,  which  way  does  the  wind  blow  —  do  you 
know?" 

Sum  Fat  flashed  him  a  dazzling  smile. 

"East'ly,"  he  said  in  a  cheerful,  clucking  voice.  "I 
think  very  fine  damn  three-day  blow." 

"At  least,"  said  Whitaker,  "you're  a  high-spirited 
prophet  of  evil.  I  thank  you." 

He  selected  a  book  from  several  shelves  stocked  with  a 
discriminating  taste,  and  settled  himself  before  the  fire. 

The  day  wore  out  before  his  patience  did,  and  with 
every  indication  of  fulfilling  the  prognosis  of  Sum  Fat ;  by 
nightfall  the  wind  had  developed  into  an  enthusiastic  gale, 
driving  before  it  sheeted  rain  and  great  ragged  wastes 
of  mist.  Whitaker  absolutely  enjoyed  the  sensation  of 
renewed  intimacy  with  the  weather,  from  which  his  life  in 
New  York  had  of  late  divorced  him  so  completely.  He 
read,  dozed,  did  full  justice  to  the  admirable  cuisine  of  Sum 
Fat,  and  between  whiles  considered  the  state  of  his  soul,  the 
cycle  of  the  suns,  his  personal  marital  entanglement,  and  the 
further  preservation,  intact,  of  his  bruised  mortal  body. 

The  ceaseless  pattering  on  the  shingled  roof  reminded 
him  very  strongly  of  that  dark  hour,  long  gone,  when  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  wed  a  strange  woman.  He  mar 
velled  at  that  madness  with  an  inexhaustible  wonder  and 
with  an  equally  vast,  desolate,  poignant  regret. 


T  H  E     W  I  N  D  O  W  131 

He  considered  faithfully  what  he  had  gained  by  re 
asserting  his  identity,  and  found  it  an  empty  thing.  He 
Tiad  been  happier  when  a  Wilful  Missing,  unmissed, 
unmourned.  It  seemed  as  if  it  might  be  best  to  go  away 
again,  to  eliminate  Hugh  Whitaker  from  the  coil  his  re 
appearance  had  created.  Then  his  wife  could  gain  her 
freedom  —  and  incidentally  free  him  —  and  marry  as  she 
willed.  And  Drummond  would  be  free  to  come  to  life  — 
with  hands  unstained,  his  honour  besmirched  only  in  the 
knowledge  of  a  few  who  would  not  tell. 

Did  he  remain,  Drummond,  he  feared,  would  prove  a 
troublesome  problem.  Whitaker  was,  in  the  light  of  sober 
after-thought,  more  than  half  convinced  that  Ember  had 
guessed  cunningly  at  the  identity  of  his  assailant.  The 
thing  was  conceivable,  at  least,  of  Drummond :  the  hedonist 
and  egoist  seeking  to  regain  his  forfeited  world  in  one 
murderous  cast.  And  it  was  hardly  conceivable  that  he 
would  hesitate  to  make  a  second  attempt  whenever  op 
portunity  offered.  New  York,  Whitaker  saw  clearly, 
was  far  too  small  to  contain  them  both  while  Drummond 
remained  at  liberty.  By  attempting  to  stay  there  he  would 
simply  invite  a  second  attempt  upon  his  life,  merely 
strengthen  Drummond's  temptation. 

He  thought  it  very  curious  that  he  had  heard  nothing 
more  of  the  proposed  action  for  divorce.  It  might  be  well 
to  communicate  again  with  his  wife's  attorneys. 

He  went  to  bed  with  a  mind  unsettled,  still  curious, 
speculative,  unable  to  fix  upon  any  definite  course  of 
conduct. 


132     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

And  the  second  day  was  like  unto  the  first :  a  day  of 
rain  and  wind  and  fog  periodically  punctuated  by  black 
squalls  that  tore  shrieking  across  the  bay  with  the  blind 
fury  of  spirits  of  destruction  gone  stark,  raving  mad. 

The  third  day  broke  full  of  the  spirit  of  the  second  ;  but 
toward  noon  the  rain  ceased,  and  by  mid-afternoon  the 
violence  of  the  wind  had  moderated  perceptibly  to  a 
stiffish  but  failing  breeze  beneath  a  breaking  cloud-rack. 
With  the  disappearance  of  fog,  for  the  first  time  since 
Whitaker's  arrival  the  neighbourhood  discovered  perspec 
tives.  By  evening,  when  the  wind  went  down  with  the 
sun,  leaving  absolute  calm,  the  barrier  beach  far  across  the 
quiet  waters  of  the  shallow,  landlocked  bay  shone  like  a 
bar  of  ruddy  gold  against  a  horizon  of  melting  mauve. 

In  the  evening,  too,  a  telegram  from  Ember  was  trans 
mitted  by  telephone  to  the  bungalow,  advising  Whitaker 
of  his  host's  intention  to  return  by  the  following  night  at 
the  latest. 

This  communication  worked  with  the  turn  of  the  weather 
to  effect  a  change  in  the  temper  of  Whitaker,  who  by  this 
time  had  managed  to  fret  himself  to  the  verge  of  incon 
tinent  departure  for  Australia  via  New  York.  He  decided, 
however,  to  wait  and  thank  Ember  for  his  hospitality,  and 
thought  seriously  of  consulting  him  as  to  the  wisest  and 
fairest  course  to  pursue. 

None  the  less,  the  restlessness  and  impatience  bred  of 
nearly  three  days  of  enforced  inaction  possessed  him  like  a 
devil.  After  another  of  Sum  Fat's  admirable  dinners,  his 
craving  for  open  air  and  exercise  drove  him  out,  despite 


THE     WINDOW  133 

the  failing  light,  to  explore  the  clearing  rather  thoroughly, 
and  to  some  extent  the  surrounding  woodlands.  At  one 
time,  indeed,  he  caught  sight,  through  thinning  trees, 
of  a  summer  home  somewhat  more  pretentious  than 
Half-a-loaf  Lodge  —  evidently  the  property  termed  by 
Ember  "  the  Fiske  place."  But  it  was  then  so  nearly  dark 
that  he  didn't  pause  to  investigate  an  impression  that  the 
place  was  tenanted,  contradictory  to  his  host's  casual 
statement ;  and  he  was  back  on  the  bungalowr  porch  in  time 
to  see  the  moon  lift  up  like  a  great  shield  of  brass  through 
the  haze  beyond  the  barrier  beach. 

Sounds  of  splashings  and  of  song  drew  him  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  to  find  that  Sum  Fat  had  rowed  out  to  the 
anchored  cat-boat  and,  almost  as  naked  as  industrious, 
was  bailing  it  clear  of  the  three  days'  accumulation  of 
rain-water.  He  came  in,  presently,  and  having  per 
formed  what  was  probably  at  least  the  eighth  cleaning  of 
his  teeth  since  morning,  wrent  to  bed. 

Wearying  at  length  of  the  lunar  spectacle,  and  quite  as 
weary  of  the  sedulous  attentions  of  a  cloud  of  famished 
mosquitoes,  Whitaker  lounged  disconsolately  indoors  to 
a  pipe  and  a  book  by  candle-light.  But  the  one  needed 
cleaning,  and  the  other  was  out  of  tune  with  his  temper,  and 
the  flame  of  the  candle  excited  the  amorous  interest  of  a 
great  fluttering  fool  of  a  moth  until  Whitaker  blew  it  out 
and  sat  on  in  darkness,  not  tired  enough  to  go  to  bed,  too 
tired  to  bestir  himself  and  seek  distraction  from  a  torment 
ing  train  of  thought. 

A  pool  of  limpid  moonlight  lay  like  milk  upon  the  floor 


134     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

beneath  a  window  and  held  his  dreaming  gaze  while 
memory  marshalled  for  his  delectation  a  pageant  of  wasted 
years,  infinitely  desolate  and  dreary  in  his  vision.  A  life 
without  profit,  as  he  saw  it :  an  existence  rendered  mean 
ingless  by  a  nameless  want  —  a  lack  he  had  not  wit  to 
name.  .  .  .  The  romance  of  his  life  enchanted  him,  its 
futility  furnished  him  a  vast  and  profound  perplexity 
To  what  end  ?  —  this  was  the  haunting  burden  of  hit 
complaint.  .  .  . 

How  long  he  sat  unstirring,  preoccupied  with  fruitless 
inquiry,  he  did  not  guess.  But  later  he  reckoned  it  could 
not  have  been  long  after  ten  o'clock  when  he  was  dis 
turbed.  The  sound  of  a  footfall,  hushed  and  stealthy  on 
the  veranda,  roused  him  with  a  start,  and  almost  at  the 
same  instant  he  became  aware  of  a  shadow  that  troubled 
the  pool  of  moonlight,  the  foreshortened  shadow  of  a  man's 
head  and  shoulders.  He  sat  up,  tense,  rigid  with  sur 
prise  and  wonder,  and  stared  at  the  silhouetted  body  at 
pause  just  outside  the  window.  The  fellow  was  stooping 
to  peer  in.  Whether  he  could  distinguish  Whitaker  in 
the  shadows  was  debatable,  but  he  remained  motionless 
through  a  long  minute,  as  if  fascinated  by  the  undeviating 
regard  returned  by  Whitaker.  Then  the  latter  broke  the 
spell  with  a  hasty  movement.  Through  the  feeling  ol 
surprised  resentment  there  had  filtered  a  gnawing  sus 
picion  that  he  was  acquainted  with  the  pose  of  that  head 
and  the  set  of  those  shoulders.  Had  Drummond  hunted 
him  down  to  this  isolate  hiding-place?  On  the  thought 
he  leaped  up,  in  two  strides  slammed  out  through  the  door. 


THE    WINDOW  135 

"  I  say  ! "  he  cried  loudly.     But  he  cried,  apparently,  to 
empty  air.     The   man   was   gone  —  vanished   as   strangely 
"End  as  quietly  as  he  had  appeared. 

Whitaker  shut  teeth  on  an  oath  and,  jumping  down  from 
the  veranda,  cast  wildly  about  the  bungalow  without  un 
covering  a  single  sign  of  the  trespasser.  In  transit  from  his 
chair  to  the  door,  he  had  lost  sight  of  the  fellow  for  no 
more,  certainly,  than  half  a  second ;  and  yet,  in  that  absurdly 
scanty  space  of  time,  the  trespasser  had  managed  to  effect 
an  absolute  disappearance.  No  conjuring  trick  was  ever 
turned  more  neatly.  There  one  instant,  gone  the  next !  — 
the  mystery  of  it  irritated  and  perplexed  more  than  did  the 
question  of  identity.  It  was  all  very  plausible  to  suspect 
Drummond  —  but  whither  could  Drummond  have  juggled 
himself  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eyelash?  That  it  was  no 
trick  of  an  idle  imagination,  Whitaker  was  prepared  to  swear : 
he  was  positive  he  had  seen  what  he  had  seen.  And  yet  .  .  . 
It  was,  on  the  other  hand,  impossible  to  say  where  in  the 
plantation  of  pines  the  man  might  not  then  be  skulking 
Whitaker  instituted  a  narrow  search,  but  fruitless. 

Eventually  pausing  and  glaring  round  the  clearing  in 
complete  bewilderment,  he  detected  or  else  fancied  a  slight 
movement  in  the  shadows  on  the  edge  of  the  encompassing 
woodland.  Instantly,  heedless  of  the  risk  he  ran  if  the  man 
were  indeed  Drummond  and  if  Drummond  were  indeed 
guilty  of  the  assault  now  four  nights  old,  Whitaker  broke  for 
the  spot.  It  proved  to  be  the  entrance  to  one  of  the  wood 
land  paths,  and  naturally  —  whether  or  no  his  imagination 
were  in  fault  — there  was  nobody  waiting  there  to  be  caught. 


136     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

But  if  any  one  had  been  there,  he  had  unquestionably  fled 
along  the  trail.  Whitaker  in  a  rage  set  himself  to  follow, 
sticking  to  the  path  partly  through  instinct,  mainly  thanks 
to  a  spectral  twilight  manufactured  in  the  forest  by  moon 
beams  filtered  thin  through  innumerable  leaves  and  branches. 
Once  or  twice  he  paused  to  listen,  then  again  plunged  on : 
misled  perhaps  by  the  mysterious  but  inevitable  noises  of 
the  nocturnal  woodland.  Before  he  realized  he  could  have 
covered  half  the  distance,  he  emerged  abruptly  into  the 
clearing  of  the  Fiske  place. 

Here  he  pulled  up,  for  the  first  time  alive  to  the  intrinsic 
idiocy  of  his  conduct,  and  diverted  besides  by  the  discovery 
that  his  impression  of  the  early  evening,  that  the  cottage 
was  tenanted,  had  been  well  founded. 

The  ground  floor  windows  shone  with  a  dim  but  warm 
illumination.  There  was  one  quite  near  him,  a  long  window 
opening  upon  the  railed  veranda,  through  which  he  could  see 
distinctly  part  of  a  living-room  rather  charmingly  furnished 
in  a  summery  way.  At  its  farther  end  a  dark-haired  woman 
in  a  plain  black  dress  with  a  short  apron  and  lace  cap  sat 
reading  by  lamplight :  evidently  a  maid.  Her  mistress  — 
judged  by  appearances  —  was  outside  on  the  lawn  below  the 
veranda,  strolling  to  and  fro  in  company  with  a  somewhat 
short  and  heavy  man  who  wore  an  automobile  duster  and 
visored  cap.  By  contrast,  her  white-clad  figure,  invested  with 
the  illusion  of  moonlight,  seemed  unusually  tall.  Her  hair  was 
fair,  shining  like  a  head-dress  of  palest  gold  as  she  bent  her 
head,  attentive  to  her  companion.  And  Whitaker  thought 
to  discern  an  unusual  quality  in  her  movements,  a  quality 


THE     WINDOW  137 

of  charm  and  a  graciousness  of  mien  rarely  to  be  noticed 
even  in  the  most  beautiful  of  the  women  he  had  known. 

Of  a  sudden  the  man  paused,  produced  a  watch  from  be 
neath  his  duster,  consulted  it  briefly  and  shut  the  case  with 
a  snap.  He  said  something  in  a  brusque  tone,  and  was  an 
swered  by  what  sounded  like  a  pleasant  negative.  Promptly, 
as  if  annoyed,  he  turned  and  strode  hastily  away,  disappear 
ing  round  the  house. 

Alone,  the  woman  watched  him  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight, 
her  head  to  one  side  with  an  effect  of  critical  amusement. 
Then  with  a  low  laugh  she  crossed  the  veranda  and  entered 
the  lighted  room.  At  the  same  time,  Whitaker,  lingering 
and  wratching  without  in  the  least  understanding  or  even 
questioning  why  he  was  doing  this  thing  so  contrary  to  his 
instincts,  heard  the  heavy  rumble  of  a  motor-car  on  the  far 
side  of  the  house  and  saw  the  machine  swing  off  across  the 
clearing  and  into  the  woods. 

In  the  living-room  the  woman  was  saying :  "  You  may  go 
now,  Elise.  I'll  be  ready  for  bed  before  long." 

"Yes,  madam."  The  maid  rose  and  moved  briskly  out 
of  sight. 

Her  mistress,  casting  aside  a  scarf  of  embroidered  Chi 
nese  brocade,  moved  about  the  room  with  an  air  at  once 
languid  and  distrait.  Pausing  beside  a  table,  she  took  up  a 
book,  opened  it,  shut  it  smartly,  discarding  it  as  if  hopeless 
of  finding  therein  any  sort  of  diversion.  She  stood  for  a 
moment  in  deep  thought,  her  head  bowed,  the  knuckle  of 
a  slender  forefinger  tapping  her  chin  —  charmingly  posed. 
Whitaker  abruptly  understood  why  it  was  he  loitered,  peep- 


138     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

ing:  she  was  absolutely  beautiful,  a  creature  both  exqui 
site  and  superb,  a  matchless  portrait  for  the  galleries  of  his 
memory. 

With  a  sigh  and  a  quick  movement  of  impatience,  seating 
herself  at  a  cottage  piano  she  ran  her  fingers  over  the  keys. 
Whitaker  recognized  the  opening  bars  of  something  or  other 
of  Beethoven's  —  he  couldn't  say  precisely  what,  at  the 
instant;  and  even  as  he  tried  a  thing  happened  which 
drove  the  music  altogether  from  his  mind :  in  short,  he  dis 
covered  that  he  was  not  the  only  watcher  below  the  window. 

Something  —  a  movement  or  perhaps  a  slight  sound  - 
had  drawn  his  attention  from  the  woman.  He  saw  the  other 
man  standing  boldly  in  full  moonlight,  all  his  attention 
concentrated  on  the  brilliant  picture  framed  by  the  window. 
He  was  unquestionably  without  knowledge  of  the  nearness 
of  the  other  —  of  Whitaker  in  the  shadows.  And  though  his 
back  was  to  the  moon  and  his  face  further  shadowed  by  a 
peaked  cap,  Whitaker  was  absolutely  sure  of  the  man :  he 
was  certainly  Drummond. 

Without  pause  for  thought  he  sprang  toward  him,  in  a 
guarded  voice  uttering  his  name—  "Drummond!"  But 
the  fellow  proved  too  alert  and  quick  for  him.  Whitaker's 
hands  closed  on  nothing  more  substantial  than  thin  air ;  at 
the  same  time  he  received  a  blow  upon  his  bruised  shoulder 
smart  and  forcible  enough  to  stagger  him  and  evoke  an  in 
voluntary  grunt  of  pain.  And  before  he  could  regain  his 
balance  the  fellow  was  thrashing  noisily  away  through  the 
woodland  underbrush. 

Involuntarily  Whitaker  glanced  through  the  window  to 


THE    WINDOW  139 

see  if  the  woman  had  been  alarmed.  But  apparently  a 
succession  of  sonorous  chords  from  the  piano  had  deafened 
her  to  all  other  sounds.  She  played  on  with  every  sign 
of  total  unconsciousness. 

Forthwith  he  struck  off  and  blundered  senselessly  through 
the  forest,  misled  by  its  elusive  phantasmagoria,  until,  realiz 
ing  at  length  he  did  but  duplicate  an  earlier  folly,  he  gave 
up  the  chase  in  disgust  and  slowly  made  his  way  back  to 
the  bungalow. 

And  yet  (for  all  the  mystery  and  the  wonder  of  his  ex 
perience)  it  was  with  a  somewhat  sheepish  feeling  that  he 
took  the  precaution  of  locking  the  doors  and  windows  before 
turning  in.  After  all,  what  grounds  had  he  for  his 
suspicions?  Merely  a  hasty  guess  at  the  identity  of  one 
who  might  turn  out  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  hapchance 
tramp  —  a  skulking  vagabond  on  the  watch  for  a  chance  to 
pilfer  and  fly. 

If  he  were  Drummond  and  as  murderous-minded  as 
Ember  claimed,  why  had  he  neglected  his  dozen  opportun 
ities  to  ambush  his  prey  in  the  woods  ? 

A  shade  of  incredulity  insensibly  began  to  color  Whit- 
aker's  apprehensions.  In  time,  with  impatience,  he  dis 
missed  them  altogether  from  his  mind. 

He  dozed  off  while  dwelling  upon  the  vision  of  a  fair- 
haired  woman  idling  over  a  piano,  swaying  slightly  as  she 
played. 


XI 

THE    SPY 

WHITAKER  slept  soundly  but  lightly  :  the  adventures  of  the 
evening  had  not  been  so  fatiguing  as  to  render  his  slumbers 
profound,  after  three  days  of  sheer  loafing.  And  he  awoke 
early,  roused  by  a  level  beam  of  blood-red  light  thrown  full 
upon  his  face  by  the  rising  sun. 

He  lay  for  a  time  languid,  watching  the  incarnadined 
walls  and  lazily  examining  the  curious  thrill  of  interest  with 
w^hich  he  found  himself  anticipating  the  day  to  come.  It 
seemed  a  long  time  since  he  had  looked  forward  to  the 
mere  routine  of  existence  with  so  strong  an  assurance  of 
emotional  diversion.  He  idled  in  whimsical  humour  with  an 
odd  conceit  to  the  effect  that  the  roots  of  his  soul  had 
somehow  been  mysteriously  watered,  so  that  it  was  about  to 
burgeon  like  a  green  bay  tree  —  whatever  that  might  mean. 
And  with  this  he  experienced  an  exhilarating  glow  of  well- 
being  that  had  of  late  been  more  a  stranger  to  his  body 
than  he  liked  to  admit. 

He  wondered  why.  Was  the  change  in  the  weather 
responsible?  Or  had  the  mere  act  of  withdrawing  from 
the  world  for  a  little  time  wrought  some  esoteric  change 
in  the  inscrutable  chemistry  of  his  sentiments  ?  Had  the 
recent  innocuous  waste  of  time  somehow  awakened  him  to 
the  value  of  the  mere  act  of  living  ?  Or,  again  —  absurd 
surmise  !  —  was  all  this  due  simply  to  the  instinct  of  sex : 

140 


THE     SPY  141 

was  it  merely  the  man  in  him  quickening  to  the  knowledge 
that  a  pretty  woman  existed  in  his  neighbourhood  ? 

At  this  last  he  laughed  openly,  and  jumped  out  of  bed.  At 
all  events,  no  healthy  man  had  any  business  dawdling  away 
a  single  minute  of  so  rare  a  morning. 

Already  the  sun  was  warm,  the  faint  breeze  bland. 
Standing  at  the  window  and  shading  his  eyes  against  the 
glare,  he  surveyed  a  world  new-washed  and  radiant :  the  sun 
majestically  climbing  up  and  away  from  the  purple  lattice 
work  of  cloud  that  barred  the  nitid  mauve  horizon;  the 
distant  beach,  a  violet-tinted  barrier  between  the  firma 
ment  and  sea ;  the  landlocked  bay  dimpled  with  vagrant 
catspaws  and  smitten  with  sunlight  as  with  a  scimitar  of 
fire;  the  earth  fresh  and  fragrant,  steaming  faintly  in  the 
ardent  glow  of  dawn. 

In  another  moment  he  was  at  the  kitchen  door,  interrupt 
ing  Sum  Fat's  first  matutinal  attentions  to  his  teeth  with  a 
demand  for  a  bathing-suit.  One  of  Ember's  was  promptly 
forthcoming,  and  by  happy  accident  fitted  him  indifferently 
well ;  so  that  three  minutes  later  found  him  poised  on  the 
end  of  the  small  dock,  above  fifteen  feet  of  water  so  limpid 
bright  that  he  could  easily  discern  the  shapes  of  pebbles  on 
the  bottom. 

He  dived  neatly,  coming  to  the  surface  with  his  flesh 
tingling  with  delight  of  the  cool  water ;  then  with  the  deliber 
ate  and  powerful  movements  of  an  experienced  swimmer, 
struck  away  from  the  land. 

Two  hundred  yards  out  he  paused,  rolled  over  on  his  back 
and,  hands  clasped  beneath  his  head,  floated  serenely,  sun- 


142     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

light  warming  his  upturned  face,  his  body  rejoicing  in  the 
suave,  clean,  fluid  embrace,  an  almost  overpowering  sense  of 
physical  sanity  and  boundless  strength  rioting  through  him. 
Quietly,  intimately,  he  smiled  at  the  sound,  good  old  world, 
athrill  with  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  life. 

Then  something  disturbed  him :  a  dull  fluttering,  vibrant 
upon  his  submerged  eardrums.  Extending  his  arms  and 
moving  his  hands  gently  to  preserve  his  poise,  he  lifted  his 
head  from  the  water.  The  neighbouring  shore-line  leaped 
flashing  to  his  vision  like  an  exquisite  disclosure  of  jewelled 
marquetry.  His  vision  ranged  quickly  from  Ember's  land 
ing-stage  to  that  on  the  water-front  of  the  Fiske  place,  and 
verified  a  surmise  with  the  discovery  of  a  motor-boat 
standing  out  from  the  latter.  The  churning  of  its  propeller 
had  roused  him. 

Holding  its  present  course,  the  boat  would  clear  him  by 
several  hundred  yards.  He  lay  quiet,  watching.  Despite 
its  generous  proportions  —  it  was  a  fair-sized  cabin  cruiser, 
deep-seaworthy  in  any  ordinary  weather  —  he  could  see 
but  a  single  person  for  all  its  crew.  Seated  astern,  divid 
ing  her  attention  between  the  side  steering-wheel  and  the 
engine,  she  was  altogether  ignorant  of  the  onlooker.  Only 
her  head  and  shoulders  showed  above  the  coaming:  her 
head  with  its  shining  golden  crown,  her  shoulders  cloaked 
with  a  light  wrap  gathered  at  the  throat. 

Whitaker,  admiring,  wondered.  .  .  . 

Sweeping  in  a  wide  arc  as  it  gathered  speed,  the  boat  pres 
ently  shot  out  smartly  on  a  straight  course  for  the  barrier 
beach. 


THE     SPY  143 

Why  ?  What  business  had  she  there  ?  And  at  an  hour 
so  early  ? 

No  affair  of  his :  Whitaker  admitted  as  much,  freely.  And 
yet,  no  reason  existed  why  he  should  not  likewise  take  an  im 
personal  interest  in  the  distant  ocean  beach.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  (he  discovered  upon  examination)  he  was  vastly  con 
cerned  in  that  quarter.  Already  he  was  beginning  his 
fourth  day  on  the  Great  West  Bay  without  having  set  foot 
upon  its  Great  South  Beach  !  Ridiculous  oversight !  And 
one  to  be  remedied  without  another  hour's  delay. 

Grinning  with  amused  toleration  of  his  own  perverse 
sophistry,  he  turned  over  on  his  side  and  struck  out  in  the 
wake  of  the  motor-boat.  He  had  over  a  mile  to  go;  but 
such  a  distance  was  nothing  dismaying  to  a  swimmer  of 
Whitaker's  quality,  who  had  all  his  life  been  on  very  friendly 
terms  with  the  sea. 

No  one  held  a  watch  on  him ;  but  when  at  length  he  waded 
ashore  he  was  complacent  in  the  knowledge  that  he  had  made 
very  good  time. 

He  found  the  motor-boat  moored  in  shallow  wrater  at  the 
end  of  a  long  and  substantial  dock.  The  name  displayed  in 
letters  of  brass  on  its  stern  was,  frankly,  Trouble.  He 
paused  waist-deep  to  lean  over  the  side  and  inspect  the  cock 
pit;  the  survey  drew  from  him  an  expression  of  approval. 
The  boat  seemed  to  be  handsomely  appointed,  and  the  motor 
exposed  by  the  open  hatch  of  the  engine  pit  was  of  a  make 
synonymous  with  speed  and  reliability.  He  patted  the  flanks 
of  the  vessel  as  he  waded  on. 

"Good  little  boat !"  said  he. 


144     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

A  weather-beaten  sign-board  on  the  dock  advertised  a 
surf -bathing  station.  Ashore  a  plank  walk  crossed  first  a 
breadth  of  sedge  marsh  and  then  penetrated  a  tumbled  waste 
of  dunes.  Where  the  summits  of  the  latter  met  the  sky,  there 
were  visible  a  series  of  angular  and  unlovely  wooden  edifices. 

Whitaker  climbed  up  on  the  walk  and  made  seawards.  He 
saw  nothing  of  the  lady  of  the  motor-boat. 

In  fact,  for  some  time  he  saw  nothing  in  human  guise; 
from  other  indications  he  was  inclined  to  conclude  that  the 
bathing  station  was  either  closed  for  the  season  or  else  had 
been  permanently  abandoned  within  a  year  or  so.  There 
was  a  notable  absence  of  rowboats  and  sailing  craft  about 
the  dock,  with,  as  he  drew  nearer  to  the  shuttered  and  deso 
late  cluster  of  bath-houses,  an  equally  remarkable  lack  of 
garments  and  towels  hanging  out  to  dry. 

Walking  rapidly,  he  wasn't  long  in  covering  the  distance 
from  shore  to  shore.  Very  soon  he  stood  at  the  head  of  a 
rude  flight  of  wooden  steps  which  ran  down  from  the  top  of 
a  wave-eaten  sand  bluff,  some  ten  or  twelve  feet  in  height, 
to  the  broad  and  gently  shelving  ocean  beach.  Whipping 
in  from  the  sea,  a  brisk  breeze,  from  which  the  dunes  had 
heretofore  sheltered  him,  now  cooled  his  dripping  bathing- 
suit  not  altogether  pleasantly.  But  he  didn't  mind.  The 
sight  of  the  surf  compensated. 

He  had  long  since  been  aware  of  its  resonant  diapason, 
betokening  a  heavy  sea;  but  the  spectacle  of  it  was  one 
ever  beautiful  in  his  sight.  Whitecaps  broke  the  lustrous 
blue,  clear  to  its  serrated  horizon.  Inshore  the  tide  was 
low;  the  broad  and  glistening  expanse  of  naked  wet  sand 


T  H  E    S  P  Y  145 

mirrored  the  tender  blueness  of  the  skies  far  out  to  where  the 
-breakers  weltered  in  confusion  of  sapphire,  emerald  and 
snow.  A  mile  offshore  a  fishing  smack  with  a  close-reefed, 
purple  patch  of  sail  was  making  heavy  weather  of  it ;  miles 
beyond  it,  again,  an  inward-bound  ocean  steamship  shoul 
dered  along  contemptuously ;  and  a  little  way  eastwards 
a  multitude  of  gulls  with  flashing  pinions  were  wheeling 
and  darting  and  screaming  above  something  in  the  sea  - 
presumably  a  school  of  fish. 

Midway  between  the  sand  bluff  and  the  breaking  waters 
stood  the  woman  Whitaker  had  followed.  (There  wasn't  any 
use  mincing  terms :  he  had  followed  her  in  his  confounded, 
fatuous  curiosity  !)  Her  face  was  to  the  sea,  her  hands 
clasped  behind  her.  Now  the  wind  modelled  her  cloak 
sweetly  to  her  body,  now  whipped  its  skirts  away,  disclosing 
legs  straight  and  slender  and  graciously  modelled.  She 
was  dressed,  it  seemed,  for  bathing ;  she  had  crossed  the  bay 
for  a  lonely  bout  with  the  surf,  and  having  found  it  danger 
ously  heavy,  now  lingered,  disappointed  but  fascinated  by 
the  majestic  beauty  of  its  fury. 

Whitaker  turned  to  go,  his  inquisitiveness  appeased ;  but 
he  was  aware  of  an  annoying  sense  of  shame,  which  he  con 
sidered  rather  low  on  the  part  of  his  conscience.  True,  he 
had  followed  her;  true,  he  had  watched  her  at  a  moment 
when  she  had  every  reason  to  believe  herself  alone  with  the 
sky,  the  sand,  the  sea  and  the  squabbling  gulls.  But  —  the 
beach  was  free  to  all;  there  was  no  harm  done;  he  hadn't 
really  meant  to  spy  upon  her,  and  he  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  forcing  himself  upon  her  consciousness. 


146     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Intentions,  however,  are  one  thing ;  accidents,  another  en 
tirely.  History  is  mainly  fashioned  of  intentions  that  have 
met  with  accidents. 

Whitaker  turned  to  go,  and  turning  let  his  gaze  sweep 
up  from  the  beach  and  along  the  brow  of  the  bluff.  He 
paused,  frowning.  Some  twenty  feet  or  so  distant  the 
legs  of  a  man,  trousered  and  booted,  protruded  from  a 
hollow  between  two  hummocks  of  sand.  And  the  toes 
of  the  boots  were  digging  into  the  sand,  indicating  that 
the  man  was  lying  prone;  and  that  meant  (if  he  were 
neither  dead  nor  sleeping)  that  he  was  watching  the  woman 
on  the  beach. 

Indignation,  righteous  indignation,  warmed  Whitaker's 
bosom.  It  was  all  very  well  for  him  to  catch  sight  of  the 
woman  through  her  cottage  window,  by  night,  and  to  swim 
over  to  the  beach  in  her  wyake  the  next  morning,  but  what 
right  had  anybody  else  to  constitute  himself  her  shadow  ? 
.  .  .  All  this  on  the  mute  evidence  of  the  boots  and 
trousers :  Whitaker  to  his  knowledge  had  never  seen  them 
before,  but  he  had  so  little  doubt  they  belonged  to  the  other 
watcher  by  the  window  last  night  that  he  readily  persuaded 
himself  that  this  must  be  so. 

Besides,  it  was  possible  that  the  man  was  Drummond, 

Anyway,  nobody  was  licensed  to  skulk  among  sand-dunes 
and  spy  upon  unescorted  females  ! 

Instantly  Whitaker  resolved  himself  into  a  select  joint 
committee  for  the  Promulgation  of  the  Principles  of  Modern 
Chivalry  and  the  Elucidation  of  the  Truth. 

He  strode  forward  and  stood  over  the  man,  looking  down 


THE    SPY  147 

at  his  back.  It  was  true,  as  he  had  assumed :  the  fellow 
was  watching  the  woman.  Chin  in  hands,  elbows  half- 
buried  in  sand,  he  seemed  to  be  following  her  with  an  un- 
deviating  regard.  And  his  back  was  very  like  Drummond's ; 
at  least,  in  height  and  general  proportion  his  figure  resembled 
Drummond's  closely  enough  to  leave  Whitaker  without  any 
deterring  doubt. 

A  little  quiver  of  excitement  mingled  with  anticipative 
satisfaction  ran  through  him.  Now,  at  last,  the  mystery 
was  to  be  cleared  up,  his  future  relations  with  the  pseudo 
suicide  defined  and  established. 

Deliberately  he  extended  his  bare  foot  and  nudged  the 
man's  ribs. 

"Drummond  ..."  he  said  in  a  clear  voice,  decided  but 
unaggressive. 

With  an  oath  and  what  seemed  a  single,  quick  motion,  the 
man  jumped  to  his  feet  and  turned  to  Whitaker  a  startled 
and  inflamed  countenance. 

"What  the  devil!"  he  cried  angrily.  "Who  are  you? 
What  do  you  want  ?  What  d'you  mean  by  coming  round 
here  and  calling  me  Drummond?" 

Pie  was  no  more  Drummond  than  he  was  Whitaker  him 
self. 

Whitaker  retreated  a  step,  nonplussed.  "I  beg  pardon," 
he  stammered  civilly,  in  his  confusion;  "I  took  you  for  a 
fr  —  a  man  I  know." 

"  Well,  I  ain't,  see  !  "  For  a  moment  the  man  glowered 
at  Whitaker,  his  features  twitching.  Apparently  the  shock 
of  surprise  had  temporarily  dislocated  his  sense  of  proper- 


148     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

tion.  Rage  blazed  from  his  bloodshot,  sunken  eyes,  and 
rage  was  eloquent  in  the  set  of  his  rusty,  square-hewn  chin 
and  the  working  of  his  heavy  and  begrimed  hands. 

"Damn  you!"  he  exploded  suddenly.  "What  d'you 
mean  by  butting  in  - 

"For  that  matter"  -something  clicked  in  Whitaker's 
brain  and  subconsciously  he  knew  that  his  temper  was  about 
to  take  the  bridge  —  "  what  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  spy 
ing  on  that  lady  yonder  ?  " 

It  being  indisputably  none  of  his  concern,  the  unfairness 
of  the  question  only  lent  it  offensive  force.  It  was  quite  evi 
dently  more  than  the  man  could  or  would  bear  from  any 
officious  stranger.  He  made  this  painfully  clear  through 
the  medium  of  an  intolerable  epithet  and  an  attempt  to 
land  his  right  fist  on  Whitaker's  face. 

The  face,  however,  was  elsewhere  when  the  fist  reached 
the  point  for  which  it  had  been  aimed ;  and  Whitaker  closed 
in  promptly  as  the  fellow's  body  followed  his  arm,  thrown  off 
balance  by  the  momentum  of  the  unobstructed  blow. 
Thoroughly  angered,  he  had  now  every  intention  of  ad 
ministering  a  sound  and  salutary  lesson. 

In  pursuance  with  this  design,  he  grappled  and  put  forth 
his  strength  to  throw  the  man. 

What  followed  had  entered  into  the  calculations  of  neither. 
Whitaker  felt  himself  suddenly  falling  through  air  thick  with 
a  blinding,  choking  cloud  of  dust  and  sand.  The  body  of 
the  other  was  simultaneously  wrenched  violently  from  his 
grasp.  Then  he  brought  up  against  solidity  with  a  bump 
that  seemed  to  expel  every  cubic  inch  of  air  from  his  lungs. 


THE     SPY  149 

And  he  heard  himself  cry  out  sharply  with  the  pain  of  his 
weak  ankle  newly  twisted.  .  .  . 

He  sat  up,  gasping  for  breath,  brushed  the  sand  from  his 
face  and  eyes,  and  as  soon  as  his  whirling  wits  settled  a  little, 
comprehended  what  had  happened. 

Half  buried  in  the*  debris  of  a  miniature  landslide,  he  sat 
at  the  foot  of  the  bluff,  which  reared  its  convex  face  behind 
and  over  him.  Immediately  above  his  head  a  ragged  break 
in  its  profile  showed  where  the  sand,  held  together  solely 
by  beach  grass,  had  given  way  beneath  the  weight  of  the 
antagonists. 

A  little  distance  from  him  the  other  man  was  picking  him 
self  up,  apparently  unhurt  but  completely  surfeited.  With 
out  delay,  with  not  even  so  much  as  a  glance  at  Whitaker, 
he  staggered  off  for  a  few  paces,  then  settled  into  a  heavy, 
lumbering  trot  westward  along  the  beach. 

This  conduct  was  so  inconsistent  with  his  late  belligerent 
humour  that  Whitaker  felt  inclined  to  rub  his  eyes  a  second 
-dme.  He  had  anticipated  —  as  soon  as  in  condition  to  rea 
son  at  all  —  nothing  less  than  an  immediate  resumption  of 
hostilities.  Yet  here  was  the  fellow  running  away.  In 
comprehensible  ! 

And  yet,  save  at  the  first  blush,  not  so  incomprehensible : 
the  chief  of  the  man's  desire  had  been  unquestionably  to  see 
without  being  seen ;  his  rage  at  being  detected  had  led  him 
to  a  misstep ;  now  he  was  reverting  to  his  original  plan  with 
all  possible  expedition.  He  did  not  wish  the  woman  to 
recognize  him ;  therefore  he  was  putting  himself  out  of  her 
way.  For  she  was  approaching. 


150     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

When  Whitaker  caught  sight  of  her,  she  was  already  close 
at  hand.  She  had  been  running.  Now  as  their  glances  met, 
hers  keenly  inquiring  of  Whitaker's  still  bewildered  eyes,  she 
pulled  up  abruptly  and  stood  astare.  He  saw,  or  fancied, 
something  closely  akin  to  fright  and  consternation  in  her 
look.  The  flush  in  her  cheeks  gave  way  to  a  swift  pallor. 
The  hands  trembled  that  drew  her  beach-cloak  close  about 
her.  She  seemed  to  make  an  ineffectual  effort  to  speak. 

On  his  part,  Whitaker  tried  to  get  up.  A  keen  twinge 
in  his  ankle,  however,  wrung  an  involuntary  grunt  from  him, 
and  with  a  wry  grimace  he  sank  back. 

"Oh!"  cried  the  woman,  impulsively.  "You're  hurt!" 
She  advanced  a  pace,  solicitous  and  sympathetic. 

"Oh,  not  much,"  Whitaker  replied  in  a  tone  more  of  hope 
than  of  assurance.  He  felt  tenderly  of  the  injured  member. 
"  Only  my  ankle  —  twisted  it  a  few  days  ago,  and  now  again. 
It'll  be  all  right  in  a  moment  or  two." 

Her  gaze  travelled  from  him  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff. 

"  I  didn't  see  —  I  mean,  I  heard  something,  and  turned, 
and  saw  you  trying  to  sit  up  and  the  other  man  rising." 

"Sorry  we  startled  you,"  Whitaker  mumbled,  wondering 
how  the  deuce  he  was  going  to  get  home.  His  examination 
of  the  ankle  hadn't  proved  greatly  encouraging. 

"But  I  —  ah  —  how  did  it  happen  ?" 

"A  mere  misunderstanding,"  he  said  lightly.  "I  mistook 
the  gentleman  for  some  one  I  knew.  He  resented  it,  so  we 
started  to  scrap  like  a  couple  of  schoolboys.  Then  .  .  . 
I  wish  to  Heaven  it  had  been  his  leg  instead  of  mine  ! " 

"But  still  I  hardly  understand  ..." 


THE    SPY  151 

She  was  now  more  composed.  The  colour  had  returned  to 
her  face.  She  stood  with  head  inclined  a  trifle  forward,  gaze 
intent  beneath  delicate  brows;  most  distractingly  pretty, 
he  thought,  in  spite  of  the  ankle  —  which  really  didn't  nurt 
much  unless  moved. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  —  ah  —  I'm  visiting  Ember  —  the  cot 
tage  next  to  yours,  I  believe.  That  is,  if  I'm  not  mistaken, 
you  have  the  Fiske  place  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"And  so,  this  morning,  it  struck  me  as  a  fine  young  idea 
to  swim  over  here  and  have  a  look  at  the  beach.  I  —  ah  — 
you  rather  showed  me  the  way,  with  your  motor-boat.  I 
mean  I  saw  you  start  out." 

He  felt  better  after  that :  open  confession  is  a  great  help 
when  one  feels  senselessly  guilty.  He  ventured  an  engaging 
smile  and  noted  with  relief  that  it  failed  either  to  terrify  or 
to  enrage  the  young  woman. 

On  the  other  hand,  she  said  encouragingly  :  "I  see." 

"  And  then  I  found  that  chap  watching  you  — 

That  startled  her.  "  How  do  you  mean  —  watching 
me?" 

"  Why  —  ah  —  that's  what  he  seemed  to  be  doing.  He 
was  lying  at  full  length  up  there,  half  hidden  —  to  all  appear 
ances  watching  you  from  behind  a  screen  of  beach  grass." 

"  But  —  I  don't  understand  —  why  should  he  have  been 
watching  me?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  if  you  don't." 

She  shook  her  head :  "  You  must  be  mistaken." 

"Daresay.    I  generally  am  when  I  jump  at  conclusions. 


152     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Anyway,  he  didn't  like  it  much  when  I  called  him  out  of  his 
name.  I  gathered,  in  fact,  that  he  was  considerably  put 
out.  Silly,  wasn't  it?" 

"  Rather  !  "  she  agreed  gravely. 

For  a  moment  or  two  they  eyed  one  another  in  silence, 
Whitaker  wondering  just  how  much  of  a  fool  she  was  think 
ing  him  and  dubiously  considering  various  expedients  to 
ingratiate  himself.  She  was  really  quite  too  charming  to 
be  neglected,  after  so  auspicious  an  inauguration  of  their 
acquaintance.  Momentarily  he  was  becoming  more  con 
vinced  that  she  was  exceptional.  Certain  he  was  he  had 
never  met  any  woman  quite  like  her  —  not  even  the  fair 
but  false  Miss  Carstairs  of  whom  he  had  once  fancied  him 
self  so  hopelessly  enamoured.  Here  he  divined  an  uncom 
mon  intelligence  conjoined  with  matchless  loveliness.  Testi 
mony  to  the  former  quality  he  acquired  from  eyes  serenely 
violet  and  thoughtful.  As  for  the  latter,  he  reflected  that 
few  professional  beauties  could  have  stood,  as  this  woman 
did,  the  acid  test  of  that  mercilessly  brilliant  morning. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  think  of  anything  useful  to  say,"  he  ven 
tured.  "  Can  you  help  me  out  ?  Unless  you'd  be  interested 
to  know  that  my  name's  Whitaker  —  Hugh  Whitaker  —  ?  " 

She  acknowledged  the  information  merely  by  a  brief  nod. 
"It  seems  to  me,"  she  said  seriously,  "that  the  pressing  ques 
tion  is,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  that  ankle  ?  Shall 
you  be  able  to  walk?" 

"Hard  to  say,"  he  grumbled,  a  trifle  dashed.  He  experi 
mented  gingerly,  moving  his  foot  this  way  and  that  and 
shutting  his  teeth  on  groans  that  the  test  would  surely 


THE    SPY  153 

have  evoked  had  he  been  alone.  "'Fraid  not.  Still,  one 
can  try." 

"It  isn't  sprained?" 

"Oh,  no — just  badly  wrenched.  And,  as  I  said,  this  is 
the  second  time  within  a  week." 

With  infinite  pains  and  the  aid  of  both  hands  and  his  sound 
foot,  he  lifted  himself  and  contrived  to  stand  erect  for  an  in 
stant,  then  bore  a  little  weight  on  the  hurt  ankle  —  and 
blenched,  paling  visibly  beneath  his  ineradicable  tan. 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  he  said  with  effort  —  "  they  grow  — 
crutches  —  on  this  neck  of  land  ?" 

And  he  was  about  to  collapse  again  upon  the  sands  when, 
without  warning,  he  found  the  woman  had  moved  to  his  side 
and  caught  his  hand,  almost  brusquely  passing  his  arm 
across  her  shoulders,  so  that  she  received  no  little  of  his 
weight. 

"Oh,  I  say  —  !"  he  protested  feebly. 

"Don't  say  anything,"  she  replied  shortly.  "I'm  very 
strong  —  quite  able  to  help  you  to  the  boat.  Please  don't 
consider  me  at  all ;  just  see  if  we  can't  manage  this  way." 

"  But  I've  no  right  to  impose  — 

"  Don't  be  silly  !  Please  do  as  I  say.  Won't  you  try  to 
walk?" 

He  endeavoured  to  withdraw  his  arm,  an  effort  rendered 
futile  by  her  cool,  firm  grasp  on  his  fingers. 

"Please  !"  she  said  —  not  altogether  patiently. 

He  eyed  her  askance.  There  was  in  this  incredible  situa 
tion  a  certain  piquancy,  definitely  provocative,  transcending 
the  claims  his  injury  made  upon  his  interest.  Last  night 


154     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

for  the  first  time  he  had  seen  this  woman  and  from  a  distance 
had  thought  her  desirable;  now,  within  twelve  hours,  he 
found  himself  with  an  arm  round  her  neck  ! 

He  thought  it  a  tremendously  interesting  neck,  slender, 
not  thin,  and  straight  and  strong,  a  milk-white  column  from 
the  frilled  collar  of  her  bathing-cloak  to  the  shimmering 
tendrils  that  clustered  behind  her  ears.  Nor  was  the  ear 
she  presented  to  his  inspection  an  everyday  ear,  lacking  its 
individual  allure.  He  considered  that  it  owned  its  distinctive 
personality,  not  unworthy  any  man's  studious  attention. 

He  saw  her  face,  of  course,  en  profile:  her  head  bowed, 
downcast  lashes  long  upon  her  cheeks,  her  mouth  set  in  a 
Mould  of  gravity,  her  brows  seriously  contracted  —  signify 
ing  preoccupation  with  the  problem  of  the  moment. 

And  then  suddenly  she  turned  her  head  and  intercepted 
his  whole-hearted  stare.  For  a  thought  wonder  glimmered 
in  the  violet  eyes ;  then  they  flashed  disconcertingly ;  finally 
they  became  utterly  cold  and  disdainful. 

"  Well  ?"  she  demanded  in  a  frigid  voice. 

He  looked  away  in  complete  confusion,  and  felt  his  face 
burning  to  the  temples. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  mumbled  unhappily. 

He  essayed  to  walk.  Twenty  feet  and  more  of  treacherous, 
dry,  yielding  sand  separated  them  from  the  flight  of  steps 
that  ascended  the  bluff.  It  proved  no  easy  journey ;  and 
its  difficulty  was  complicated  by  his  determination  to  spare 
the  woman  as  much  as  he  could.  Gritting  his  teeth,  he 
grinned  and  bore  without  a  murmur  until,  the  first  stage 
of  the  journey  accomplished,  he  was  able  to  grasp  a  handrail 


THE    SPY  155 

at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  and  breathe  devout  thanks  through 
the  medium  of  a  gasp. 

"Shall  we  rest  a  bit?"  the  woman  asked,  compassionate, 
ignoring  now  the  impertinence  she  had  chosen  to  resent  a  few 
moments  ago. 

"Think  I  can  manage  —  thanks,"  he  said,  panting  a  little. 
"It'll  be  easier  now  —  going  up.  I  shan't  need  help." 

He  withdrew  his  arm,  perhaps  not  without  regret,  but 
assuredly  with  a  comforting  sense  of  decent  consideration 
for  her,  as  well  as  with  some  slight  and  intrinsically  mascu 
line  satisfaction  in  the  knowledge  that  he  was  overcoming 
her  will  and  her  resistance. 

"No  —  honestly!"  he  insisted.  "These  handrails  make 
it  easy." 

"But  please  be  sure,"  she  begged.  "Don't  take  any 
chances.  /  don't  mind  ..." 

"Let  me  demonstrate,  then." 

The  stairway  was  comfortably  narrow;  he  had  only  to 
grasp  a  rail  with  either  hand,  and  half  lift  himself,  half  hop 
up  step  by  step.  In  this  manner  he  accomplished  the  ascent 
in  excellent,  if  hopelessly  ungraceful,  style.  At  the  top  he 
limped  to  a  wooden  seat  beside  one  of  the  bath-houses  and 
sat  down  with  so  much  grim  decision  in  his  manner  that  it 
was  evident  to  the  woman  the  moment  she  rejoined  him. 
But  he  mustered  a  smile  to  meet  her  look  of  concern,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"Thus  far  and  no  farther." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  not  be  stubborn  1" 

"I    mean    to   be  —  horrid    stubborn.      In   fact,  I   don't 


156     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

mind  warning  you  that  there's  a  famous  strain  of  mule  in  the 
Whitaker  make-up." 

She  was,  however,  not  to  be  diverted;  and  her  fugitive 
frown  bespoke  impatience,  if  he  were  any  judge. 

"  But  seriously,  you  must  - 

"  Believe  me,"  he  interrupted,  "  if  I  am  to  retain  any  vestige 
of  self-respect,  I  must  no  longer  make  a  crutch  of  you." 

"But,  really,  I  don't  see  why  —  !  " 

"Need  I  remind  you  I  am  a  man?"  he  argued  lightly. 
"Even  as  you  are  a  very  charming  woman  .  .  ." 

The  frown  deepened  while  she  conned  this  utterance  over. 

"How  do  you  mean  me  to  interpret  that  ?"  she  demanded, 
straightforward. 

"The  intention  was  not  uncomplimentary,  perhaps,"  he 
said  gravely;  "though  the  clumsiness  is  incontestable.  As 
for  the  rest  of  it  —  I'm  not  trying  to  flirt  with  you,  if  that's 
what  you  mean  —  yet.  What  I  wished  to  convey  was 
simply  my  intention  no  longer  to  bear  my  masculine  weight 
upon  a  woman  —  either  you  or  any  other  woman." 

A  smile  contended  momentarily  with  the  frown,  and 
triumphed  brilliantly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure.  But  do  you  mind  telling 
me  what  you  do  mean  to  do  ?  " 

"No." 

"Well,  then —  ?"  The  smile  was  deepening  very  pleas 
antly. 

"I  mean  lo  ask  you,"  he  said  deliberately,  taking  heart 
of  this  favourable  manifestation :  "  to  whom  am  I  in 
debted— ?" 


THE    SPY  157 

To  his  consternation  the  smile  vanished,  as  though  a  cloud 
had  sailed  before  the  sun.  Doubt  and  something  strongly 
resembling  incredulity  informed  her  glance. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know?"  she  demanded 
after  a  moment. 

"  Believe  me,  I've  no  least  idea  — 

"  But  surely  Mr.  Ember  must  have  told  you  ?  " 

"  Ember  seemed  to  be  labouring  under  the  misapprehension 
that  the  Fiske  place  was  without  a  tenant." 

"Oh!" 

"And  I'm  sure  he  was  sincere.  Otherwise  it's  certain 
wild  horses  couldn't  have  dragged  him  back  to  New  York." 

"Oh  !"  Her  tone  was  thoughtful.  "So  he  has  gone  back 
to  town?" 

"Business  called  him.  At  least  such  was  the  plausible 
excuse  he  advanced  for  depriving  himself  of  my  exclusive 
society." 

"I  see,"  she  nodded  —  "I  see  .  .  ." 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me?  Or  ought  I  to  prove 
my  human  intelligence  by  assuming  on  logical  grounds  that 
you're  Miss  Fiske  ?  " 

"If  you  please,"  she  murmured  absently,  her  intent  gaze 
seeking  the  distances  of  the  sea. 

"Then  that's  settled,"  he  pursued  in  accents  of  satisfac 
tion.  "You  are  Miss  Fiske  —  Christian  name  at  present 
unknown  to  deponent.  I  am  one  Whitaker,  as  already 
deposed  —  baptized  Hugh.  And  we  are  neignbours.  Do 
you  know,  I  think  this  a  very  decent  sort  of  a  world 
after  all?" 


158     THE    DESTROYING     ANGEL 

"And  still"  —  she  returned  to  the  charge  —  "you  haven't 
told  me  what  you  mean  to  do,  since  you  refuse  my  help. " 

"I  mean,"  he  asserted  cheerfully,  "to  sit  here,  aping 
Patience  on  a  monument,  until  some  kind-hearted  person 
fetches  me  a  stick  or  other  suitable  piece  of  wood  to  serve  as 
emergency  staff.  Then  I  shall  make  shift  to  hobble  to  your 
motor-boat  and  thank  you  very  kindly  for  ferrying  me  home." 

"Very  well,"  she  said  with  a  business-like  air.  "Now  we 
understand  one  another,  I'll  see  what  I  can  find." 

Reviewing  their  surroundings  with  a  swift  and  compre 
hensive  glance,  she  shook  her  head  in  dainty  annoyance, 
stood  for  an  instant  plunged  in  speculation,  then,  light- 
footed,  darted  from  sight  round  the  side  of  the  bath-house. 

He  waited,  a  tender  nurse  to  his  ankle,  smiling  vaguely  at 
the  benign  sky. 

Presently  she  reappeared,  dragging  an  eight-foot  pole, 
which,  from  certain  indications,  seemed  to  have  been  for 
merly  dedicated  to  the  office  of  clothes-line  prop. 

"Will  this  do?" 

Whitaker  took  it  from  her  and  weighed  it  with  anxious 
judgment. 

"A  trifle  tall,  even  for  me,"  he  allowed.     "Still  .  .  ." 

He  rose  on  one  foot  and  tested  the  staff  with  his  weight. 
"Twill  do,"  he  decided.  "And  thank  you  very  much." 

But  even  with  its  aid,  his  progress  toward  the  boat 
necessarily  consumed  a  tedious  time.  It  was  impossible  to 
favour  the  injured  foot  to  any  great  extent.  Between  occa 
sional  halts  for  rest,  Whitaker  hobbled  with  grim  determi 
nation,  suffering  exquisitely  but  privately.  The  girl  con- 


THE     SPY  159 

siderately  schooled  her  pace  to  his,  subjecting  him  to  covert 
scrutiny  when,  as  they  moved  on,  his  injury  interested  him 
exclusively. 

He  made  little  or  no  attempt  to  converse  while  in  motion ; 
a  spirit  of  bravado  alone,  indeed,  would  have  enabled  him 
to  pay  attention  to  anything  aside  from  the  problem  of  the 
next  step ;  and  bravado  was  a  stranger  to  his  cosmos  then,  if 
ever.  So  she  had  plenty  of  opportunity  to  make  up  her  mind 
about  him. 

If  her  eyes  were  a  reliable  index,  she  found  him  at  least 
interesting.  At  times  their  expression  was  enigmatic  beyond 
any  reading.  Again  they  seemed  openly  perplexed.  At  all 
times  they  were  warily  regardful. 

Once  she  sighed  quietly  with  a  passing  look  of  sadness  of 
which  he  was  wholly  unaware.  .  .  . 

"Odd  —  about  that  fellow,"  he  observed  during  a  halt. 
"  I  was  sure  I  knew  him,  both  times  —  last  night  as  well  as 
to-day." 

"  Last  night  ?  "  she  queried  with  patent  interest. 

"  Oh,  yes :  I  meant  to  tell  you.  He  was  prowling  round 
the  bungalow  —  Ember's,  I  mean  —  when  I  first  saw  him.  I 
chased  him  off,  lost  him  in  the  woods,  and  later  picked  him 
up  again  just  at  the  edge  of  your  grounds.  That's  why  I 
thought  it  funny  that  he  should  be  over  here  this  morning, 
shadowing  you  —  as  they  say  in  detective  stories." 

"No  wonder  !"  she  commented  sympathetically. 

"And  the  oddest  thing  of  all  was  that  I  should  be  so  sure 
he  was  Drummond  —  until  I  saw  — 

"Drummond!" 


160     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Friend  of  mine  .  .  .  You  don't  by  any  chance  know 
Drummond,  do  you?" 

"I've  heard  the  name." 

"  You  must  have.  The  papers  were  full  of  his  case  for  a 
while.  Man  supposed  to  have  committed  suicide  —  jumped 
off  Washington  Bridge  a  week  before  he  was  to  marry  Sara 
Law,  the  actress  ?  " 

"Why  .  .  .  yes.  Yes,  I  remember.  But  .  .  .  'Sup 
posed  to  have  committed  suicide'  —  did  you  say  ?" 

He  nodded.  "He  may  have  got  away  with  it,  at  that. 
Only,  I've  good  reason  to  believe  he  didn't.  ...  I  may 
as  well  tell  you :  it's  no  secret,  although  only  a  few  people 
know  it :  Ember  saw  Drummond,  or  thinks  he  did,  alive,  in 
the  flesh,  a  good  half-hour  after  the  time  of  his  reported 
suicide." 

"Really  !  "  the  girl  commented  in  a  stifled  voice. 

"Oh,  for  all  that,  there's  no  proof  Ember  wasn't  misled 
by  an  accidental  resemblance  —  no  real  proof  —  merely 
circumstantial  evidence.  Though  for  my  part,  I'm  quite 
convinced  Drummond  still  lives." 

"  How  very  curious  ! "  There  was  nothing  more  than  civil 
but  perfunctory  interest  in  the  comment.  "Are  you  ready 
logo  on?" 

And  another  time,  when  they  were  near  the  boat : 

"When  do  you  expect  Mr.  Ember?"  asked  the  girl. 

"To-night,  probably.  At  least,  he  wired  yesterday  to  say 
he'd  be  down  to-night.  But  from  what  little  I've  seen  of 
him,  you  can  never  be  sure  of  Ember.  He  seems  to  lead 
the  sedentary  and  uneventful  life  of  a  flea  on  a  hot  griddle." 


THE     SPY  161 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him,"  said  the  girl  in  what  Whitaker 
__  thought  a  curious  tone.  "  Please  tell  him,  will  you  ?  Don't 
forget." 

"  If  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  him,  I  shall  be  tempted 
to  wire  him  not  to  come." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  the  woman 
sharply,  a  glint  of  indignation  in  her  level,  challenging  stare. 

"Merely  that  your  tone  sounded  a  bit  vindictive.  I 
thought  possibly  you  might  want  to  have  it  out  with  him, 
for  the  sin  of  permitting  me  to  infest  this  neck  o'  the  woods." 

"Absurd  !"  she  laughed,  placated. 

When  finally  they  came  to  the  end  of  the  dock,  he  paused, 
considering  the  three-foot  drop  to  the  deck  of  the  motor- 
boat  with  a  dubious  look  that  but  half  expressed  his  con 
sternation.  It  would  be  practically  impossible  to  lower 
himself  without  employing  the  painful  member  to  an 
extent  he  didn't  like  to  anticipate.  He  met  the  girl's  in 
quiring  glance  with  one  wholly  rueful. 

"If  it  weren't  low  tide  .  .  .  "  he  explained,  crest-fallen. 

She  laughed  lightly.  "But,  since  it  is  low  tide,  you'll 
have  to  let  me  help  you  again." 

Cautiously  lowering  himself  to  a  sitting  position  on  the 
dock,  feet  overhanging  the  boat,  he  nodded.  "'Fraid  so. 
Sorry  to  be  a  nuisance." 

"You're  not  a  nuisance.  You're  merely  masculine,"  the 
girl  retorted,  jumping  lightly  but  surely  to  the  cockpit. 

She  turned  and  offered  him  a  hand,  eyes  dancing  with  gay 
malice. 

Whitaker  delayed,  considering  her  gravely. 


162     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Meaning  —  ?"  he  inquired  pleasantly. 

"  Like  all  men  you  must  turn  to  a  woman  in  the  end  — 
however  brave  your  strut." 

"Oh,  it's  that  way,  is  it?  Thank  you,  but  I  fancy  I  can 
manage." 

And  with  the  aid  of  the  clothes-prop  he  did  manage  to 
make  the  descent  without  her  hand  and  without  disaster. 

"Pure  blague!"  the  girl  taunted. 

"That's  French  for  I-think-I'm-smart-don't-I  —  isn't  it?" 
he  inquired  with  an  innocent  stare.  "If  so,  the  answer. is: 
I  do." 

Her  lips  and  eyes  were  eloquent  of  laughter  repressed. 

"But  now?"  she  argued,  sure  of  triumph.  "You've 
got  to  admit  you  couldn't  do  without  me  now  ! " 

"Oh,  I  can  manage  a  motor,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
he  retorted  serenely ;  "  though  I  confess  there  are  a  few  new 
kinks  to  this  one  that  might  puzzle  me  a  bit  at  the  start. 
That  chain-and-cogwheel  affair  to  turn  the  flywheel  with, 
for  instance  —  that's  a  new  one.  The  last  time  I  ran  a 
marine  motor  in  this  country  we  had  to  break  our  backs  and 
run  chances  of  breaking  our  arms  as  well,  turning  up  by  hand." 

The  girl  had  gone  forward,  over  the  cabin  roof,  to  cast  off. 
She  returned  along  the  outboard,  pushing  the  boat  clear, 
then,  jumping  back  into  the  cockpit,  started  the  engine  with  a 
single,  almost  effortless  turn  of  the  crank  which  Whitaker 
had  mentioned,  and  took  the  wheel  as  the  boat  swung  dron 
ing  away  from  the  dock.  Not  until  she  had  once  or  twice 
advanced  the  spark  and  made  other  minor  adjustments, 
did  she  return  attention  to  her  passenger. 


T  H  E    S  P  Y  163 

Then,  in  a  casual  voice,  she  inquired :  "You've  been  out 
of  the  country  for  some  time,  I  think  you  said  ?  " 

"Almost  six  years  on  the  other  side  of  the  world  —  got 
back  only  last  spring." 

"What,"  she  asked,  eyes  averted,  spying  out  the  channel 
—  "what  does  one  do  on  the  other  side  of  the  world  ?" 

"This  one  knocked  about,  mostly,  for  his  health's  sake. 
That  is,  I  went  away  expecting  to  die  before  long,  was  dis 
appointed,  got  well  and  strong  and  —  took  to  drifting  .  .  . 
I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  broke  off  hastily  ;  "  a  civil  answer  to  a 
civil  question  needn't  necessarily  be  the  history  of  one's  life." 

The  girl  put  the  wheel  down  slowly,  swinging  the  boat 
upon  a  course  direct  to  the  landing-stage  at  Half-a-loaf 
Lodge. 

"  But  surely  you  didn't  waste  six  years  simply  'drifting'  ?" 

"  Well,  I  did  drift  into  a  sort  of  business,  after  a  bit  — 
gold  mining  in  a  haphazard,  happy-go-lucky  fashion  —  did 
pretty  well  at  it  and  came  home  to  astonish  the  natives." 

"Was  it  a  success  ?" 

"Rather,"  he  replied  dryly. 

"  I  meant  your  plan  to  astonish  the  natives." 

"So  did  I." 

"You  find  things  —  New  York  —  disappointing?"  she 
analyzed  his  tone. 

"  I  find  it  overpowering  —  and  lonely.  Nobody  sent  a 
brass  band  to  greet  me  at  the  dock  ;  and  all  the  people  I  used 
to  know  are  either  married  and  devoted  to  brats,  or  divorced 
and  devoted  to  bridge ;  and  my  game  has  gone  off  so  badly 
in  six  years  that  I  don't  belong  any  more." 


164     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

She  smiled,  shaping  her  scarlet  lips  deliciously.  The  soft, 
warm  wind  whipped  stray  strands  of  hair,  like  cords  of  gold, 
about  her  face.  Her  eyelids  were  half  lowered  against  the 
intolerable  splendour  of  the  day.  The  waters  of  the  bay, 
wind-blurred  and  dark,  seemed  a  shield  of  sapphire  fash 
ioned  by  nature  solely  to  set  off  in  clear  relief  her  ardent  love 
liness. 

Whitaker,  noting  how  swiftly  the  mainland  shores  were  dis 
closing  the  finer  details  of  their  beauty,  could  have  wished 
the  bay  ten  times  as  wide. 


XII 

THE    MOUSE-TRAP 

LATE  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  Ember,  appearing 
suddenly  in  front  of  the  bungalow,  discovered  Whitaker 
sitting  up  in  state ;  a  comfortable  wicker  chair  supported  his 
body  and  a  canvas-seated  camp  stool  one  of  his  feet ;  which 
last  was  discreetly  veiled  in  a  dripping  bath-towel.  Other 
wise  he  was  fastidiously  arrayed  in  white  flannels  and,  by 
his  seraphic  smile  and  guileless  expression,  seemed  abnor 
mally  at  peace  with  his  circumstances. 

Halting,  Ember  surveyed  the  spectacle  with  mocking 
disfavour,  as  though  he  felt  himself  slightly  at  a  disadvan 
tage.  He  was,  indeed,  in  a  state  that  furnished  an  admirable 
contrast  to  that  of  the  elegant  if  disabled  idler.  His  face 
was  scarcely  whiter  with  the  impalpable  souvenirs  of  the 
road  than  was  his  slate-coloured  mohair  duster.  The 
former,  indeed,  suffered  by  comparison,  its  personal  coat 
of  dust  being  deep-rutted  with  muddy  paths  of  perspiration  ; 
beneath  all  lay  the  dull  flush  of  flesh  scorched  by  continuous 
exposure  to  sunlight  and  the  swift  rush  of  superheated  air. 
None  the  less,  his  eyes,  gleaming  bright  as  through  a  mask, 
were  not  unamiable. 

"Hel-/o  /  "  he  observed,  beginning  to  draw  off  his  gauntlets 
as  he  ascended  the  veranda  steps  and  dropped  into  another 
wicker  chair. 

165 


166     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"How  do  you  do  ?"  returned  Whitaker  agreeably. 

"  I'm  all  right ;  but  what  the  deuce  's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"  Game  leg,  thanks.  Twisted  my  ankle  again,  this  morn 
ing.  Sum  Fat  has  been  doctoring  it  with  intense  enthusiasm, 
horse  liniment  and  chopped  ice." 

"That's  the  only  proper  treatment  for  sprains.  Bad,  is 
it?" 

"  Not  very  —  not  half  as  bad  as  I  thought  it  would  be  at 
first.  Coming  on  top  of  the  other  wrench  made  it  extra  pain 
ful  for  a  while  —  that's  all.  By  to-morrow  morning  I'll  be 
skipping  like  the  silly  old  hills  in  the  Scriptures." 

"  Hope  so ;  but  you  don't  want  to  overdo  the  imitation, 
you  know.  Give  nature  a  chance  to  make  the  cure  complete. 
Otherwise  —  well,  you  must  've  had  a  pretty  rotten  stupid 
time  of  it,  with  that  storm." 

"Oh,  not  at  all.     I  really  enjoyed  it,"  Whitaker  protested. 

"Like  this  place,  eh?" 

"Heavenly!"  asserted  the  invalid  with  enthusiasm.  "I 
can't  thank  you  enough." 

"Oh,  if  you  forgive  me  for  leaving  you  alone  so  much,  we'll 
call  it  square."  Ember  lifted  his  voice  :  "Sum  Fat,  ahoy  !" 

The  Chinaman  appeared  in  the  doorway,  as  suddenly  and 
silently  as  if  magically  materialized  by  the  sound  of  his  name. 
He  bore  with  circumspection  a  large  tray  decorated  with 
glasses,  siphons,  decanters  and  a  bowl  of  cracked  ice. 

"  I  make  very  remarkable  damn  fine  quick  guess  what  you 
want  first,"  he  observed  suavely,  placing  the  tray  on  a  small 
table  convenient  to  Ember's  hand.  "That  all  now?" 


THE    MOUSE-TRAP  167 

"You're  a  sulphur-coloured  wizard  with  pigeon-toed  eyes," 
replied  Ember  severely.  "Go  away  from  here  instantly 
and  prepare  me  all  the  dinner  in  the  establishment,  lest  an 
evil  fate  overtake  you." 

"It  is  written,"  returned  Sum  Fat,  "that  I  die  after  eight- 
seven  years  of  honourable  life  from  heart-failure  on  receiving 
long-deferred  raise  in  wages." 

He  shuffled  off,  chuckling. 

"Scotch  or  Irish?"  demanded  Ember,  clinking  glasses. 

"Irish,  please.     How's  your  friend's  case?" 

"Coming  along.     You  don't  seem  surprised  to  see  me." 

"I  had  your  telegram,  and  besides  I  heard  your  car,  just 
now." 

"Oh  !"  There  was  a  significance  in  the  ejaculation  which 
Whitaker  chose  to  ignore  as  he  blandly  accepted  his  frosted 
glass.  "You  weren't  —  ah  —  lonely?"  Ember  persisted. 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"  I  fancied  I  saw  the  flutter  of  a  petticoat  through  the  trees, 
as  I  came  up  to  the  house." 

"You  did." 

"  Found  a  —  ah  —  friend  down  here  ?  " 

"  Acquaintance  of  yours,  I  believe  :    Miss  Fiske." 

"Miss  Fiske!"  There  was  unfeigned  amazement  in  the 
echo. 

"Anything  wonderful  about  that?"  inquired  Whitaker, 
sharply.  "I  fancied  from  what  she  said  that  you  two  were 
rather  good  friends." 

"Just  surprised  —  that's  all,"  said  Ember,  recovering. 
"You  see,  I  didn't  think  the  Fiske  place  was  open  this  year." 


168     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

He  stared  suspiciously  at  Whitaker,  but  the  latter  was 
transparently  ingenuous. 

"  She  expressed  an  unaccountable  desire  to  see  you  —  told 
me  to  tell  you." 

"  Oh  ?  Such  being  the  case,  one  would  think  she  might  Ve 
waited." 

"She  had  just  started  home  when  you  drove  in,"  Whitaker 
explained  with  elaborate  ease.  "She'd  merely  run  over 
for  a  moment  to  inquire  after  my  ankle,  and  couldn't 
wait." 

"Thoughtful  of  her." 

"Wasn't  it?"  To  this  Whitaker  added  with  less  com 
placency  :  "You'll  have  to  call  after  dinner,  I  suppose." 

"Sorry,"  said  Ember,  hastily,  "but  shan't  be  able  to. 
Fact  is,  I  only  ran  in  to  see  if  you  were  comfortable  —  must 
get  back  to  town  immediately  after  dinner  —  friend's  case 
at  a  critical  stage." 

"Everybody  loves  me  and  worries  about  my  interesting 
condition  —  even  you,  wretched  host  that  you  are." 

"I  apologize." 

"Don't;  you  needn't.  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  interfere 
with  your  desperate  business.  I'm  really  quite  happy  here 
—  alone." 

"Alone  —  I  think  you  said?"  Ember  inquired  after  a 
brief  pause. 

"Alone,"  Whitaker  reiterated  firmly. 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  the  place." 

"It's  most  attractive,  really.  ...  I  say,  who  are  the 
Fiskes,  anyway?" 


THE     MOUSE-TRAP  169 

"Well  .  .  .  the  Fiskes  are  the  people  who  own  the  next 
cottage." 

"I  know,  but  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  never  troubled  to  inquire ;  have  a  hazy  notion 
Fiske  does  something  in  Wall  Street."  Ember  passed 
smoothly  over  this  flaw  in  his  professional  omniscience. 
"How  did  you  happen  to  meet  her  ?" 

"Oh,  mere  accident.  Over  on  the  beach  this  morning. 
I  slipped  and  hurt  my  ankle.  She  —  ah  —  happened  along 
and  brought  me  home  in  her  motor-boat." 

On  mature  reflection,  Whitaker  had  decided  that  it  would 
be  as  well  to  edit  his  already  sketchy  explanation  of  all 
reference  to  the  putative  spy  who  wasn't  Drummond ;  in 
other  words,  to  let  Ember's  sleeping  detective  instincts  lie. 
And  with  this  private  understanding  with  himself,  he  felt  a 
little  aggrieved  because  of  the  quarter  toward  which  Ember 
presently  saw  fit  to  swing  their  talk. 

"  You  haven't  seen  Drummond  —  or  any  signs  of  him, 
have  you  ?  " 

"Eh  — what?"  Whitaker  sat  up,  startled.  "No,  I 
.  .  .  er  .  .  .  how  should  I?" 

"I  merely  wondered.  You  see,  I  ...  Well,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  took  the  liberty  of  camping  on  his  trail,  while  in 
town,  with  the  idea  of  serving  him  with  notice  to  behave. 
But  he'd  anticipated  me,  apparently ;  he'd  cleared  out  of  his 
accustomed  haunts  —  got  away  clean.  I  couldn't  find  any 
trace  of  him." 

"You're  a  swell  sleuth,"  Whitaker  commented  critically. 

"You  be  damn*.  .          That's  the  true  reason  whv  I  ran 


170     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

down  to-day,  when  I  really  couldn't  spare  the  time ;  I  was  a 
bit  worried  —  afraid  he'd  maybe  doped  out  my  little  scheme 
for  keeping  you  out  of  harm's  way." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  Whitaker  expostulated,  touched  by  this 
evidence  of  disinterested  thoughtfulness.  "You  don't 
mean  — 

"On  the  contrary,  I  firmly  believe  him  responsible  for 
that  attack  on  you  the  other  night.  The  man's  a  dangerous 
monomaniac;  brooding  over  his  self-wrought  wrongs  has 
made  him  such." 

"You  persuade  yourself  too  much,  old  man.  You  set  up 
an  inference  and  idolize  it  as  an  immortal  truth.  Why,  you 
had  me  going  for  a  while.  Only  last  night  there  was  a  fellow 
skulking  round  here,  and  I  was  just  dippy  enough,  thanks  to 
your  influence,  to  think  he  resembled  Drummond.  But 
this  morning  I  got  a  good  look  at  him,  and  he's  no  more  Drum- 
miond  than  you  are." 

"The  hell  you  say!"  Ember  sat  up,  eyes  snapping. 
"Who  was  he  then?" 

"Simply  a  good-for-nothing  vagabond  —  tramp." 

" What 'd  he  want?" 

"Search  me." 

"But  why  the  devil  didn't  you  tell  me  this  before?"   • 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  attach  any  importance  to 
the  mere  fact  that  an  ordinary  tramp  - 

"I  attach  importance  to  many  things  that  other  people 
overlook.  That's  my  artfulness.  I  don't  suppose  it  has 
occurred  to  you  that  tramps  follow  the  railroads,  and  that 
Long  Island  is  free  of  the  vermin  for  the  simple  reason  that 


THE    MOUSE-TRAP  171 

the  Long  Island  Railroad  doesn't  lead  anywhere  any  self- 
respecting  tramp  would  care  to  go  ?" 

"  It's  true  —  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  So  that  makes  the 
appearance  of  a  tramp  in  these  parts  a  cir-spicious  sus- 
cumstance?" 

"It  does.     Now  tell  me  about  him  —  everything." 

So  the  truth  would  out,  after  all.  Whitaker  resignedly 
delivered  himself  of  the  tale  of  the  mare's-nest  —  as  he  still 
regarded  it.  When  he  had  come  to  the  lame  conclusion 
thereof,  lumber  yawned  and  rose. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  Whitaker  inquired 
with  irony. 

"Wash  and  make  myself  fit  to  eat  food,"  was  the  response. 
"  I  may  possibly  think  a  little.  It's  an  exhilarating  exercise 
which  I  don't  hesitate  to  recommend  to  your  distinguished 
consideration." 

He  was  out  of  earshot,  within  the  bungalow,  before  Whita 
ker  could  think  up  an  adequately  insolent  retort.  He  could, 
however,  do  no  less  than  smile  incredulously  at  the  beautiful 
world :  so  much,  at  least,  he  owed  his  self-respect. 

He  lolled  comfortably,  dreaming,  forgetful  of  his  cold- 
storage  foot,  serene  in  the  assurance  that  Ember  was  an 
alarmist,  Drummond  (if  alive)  to  a  degree  hand-bound  by 
his  own  misconduct,  a  wretched  creature  self-doomed  to 
haunt  the  under-world,  little  potent  either  for  good  or  for 
evil;  while  it  was  a  certainty,  Whitaker  believed,  that  to 
morrow's  sun  would  find  him  able  to  be  up  and  about  — 
able  to  hobble,  even  if  with  difficulty,  at  least  as  much  as  the 
eighth  of  a  mile. 


172     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Long  shadows  darkened  athwart  the  clearing.  The  bay 
was  quick  with  moving  water,  its  wonderful  deep  blue  shading 
to  violet  in  the  distant  reaches.  Beyond  the  golden  arm  of 
the  barrier  beach  drifted  the  lazy  purple  sails  of  coastwise 
schooners.  Gradually  these  blushed  red,  the  golden  ami 
took  on  a  ruddy  tinge,  the  bosom  of  the  waters  a  trans 
lucent  pink,  mirroring  the  vast  conflagration  in  the  western 
skies. 

Somewhere  —  not  far  away  —  a  wrhippoorwill  whistled 
with  plaintive  insistence. 

In  the  deepening  twilight  a  mental  shadow  came  to  cloud 
the  brightness  of  Whitaker's  confident  contentment.  He  sat 
brooding  and  mumbling  curses  on  the  ache  in  his  frost-bitten 
foot,  and  was  more  than  slightly  relieved  when  Sum  Fat 
lighted  the  candles  in  the  living-room  and  summoned  Ember 
to  help  the  invalid  indoors. 

Neither  good  food  nor  good  company  seemed  able  to  miti 
gate  this  sudden  seizure  of  despondency.  He  sat  glooming 
over  his  plate  and  glass,  the  burden  of  his  conversation 
yea,  yea  and  nay,  nay;  nor  was  anything  of  Ember's  inter 
mittent  banter  apparently  able  to  educe  the  spirited  retorts 
ordinarily  to  be  expected  of  him. 

His  host  diagnosed  his  complaint  from  beneath  shrewd 
eyebrows. 

"Whitaker,"  he  said  at  length,  "a  pessimist  has  been  de 
fined  as  a  dog  that  won't  scratch." 

"Well?"  said  the  other  sourly. 

"  Come  on.     Be  a  sport.     Have  a  good  scratch  on  me." 

Whitaker  grinned  reluctantly  and  briefly. 


THE    MOUSE-TRAP  173 

"Where's  my  wife?"  he  demanded  abruptly. 
__-  "  How  in  blazes  —  !" 

"There  you  are!"  Whitaker  complained.  "You  make 
great  pretensions,  and  yet  you  fall  down  flat  on  your  foolish 
face  three  times  in  less  than  as  many  hours.  You  don't 
know  who  the  Fiskes  are,  you've  lost  track  of  your  pet  myth, 
Drummond,  and  you  don't  know  where  I  can  find  my  wife. 
And  yet  I'm  expected  to  stand  round  with  my  mouth  open, 
playing  Dr.  Watson  to  your  Sherlock  Holmes.  I  could  go  to 
that  telephone  and  consult  'Information'  to  better  advan 
tage!" 

"What  you  need,"  retorted  the  other,  unmoved,  "is  a 
clairvoyant,  not  a  detective.  If  you  can't  keep  track  of  your 
trial  marriages  yourself  .  .  . !" 

He  shrugged. 

"Then  you  don't  know  —  haven't  the  least  idea  where  she 
is?" 

"  My  dear  man,  I  myself  am  beginning  to  doubt  her  exist 
ence." 

"I  don't  see  why  the  dickens  she  doesn't  go  ahead  with 
those  divorce  proceedings!"  Whitaker  remarked  morosely. 

"I've  met  few  men  so  eager  for  full  membership  in  the 
Alimony  Club.  What's  your  hurry?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  Which  was  largely  truth  un- 
veneered.  "I'd  like  to  get  it  over  and  done  with." 

"You  might  advertise  —  offer  a  suitable  reward  for  in 
formation  concerning  the  whereabouts  of  one  docile  and 
dormant  divorce  suit  - 

"  I  might,  but  you'd  never  earn  it." 


174     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  Doubtless.  I've  long  since  learned  never  to  expect  any 
reward  commensurate  with  my  merits." 

Ember  pushed  back  his  chair  and,  rising,  strolled  to  the 
door.  "Moonrise  and  a  fine,  clear  night,"  he  said,  staring 
through  the  wire  mesh  of  the  screen.  "Wish  you  were 
well  enough  to  go  riding  with  me.  However,  you  won't 
be  laid  up  long,  I  fancy.  And  I'll  be  back  day  after  to 
morrow.  Now  I  must  cut  along." 

And  within  ten  minutes  Whitaker  heard  the  motor-car 
rumble  off  on  the  woodland  road. 

He  wasn't  altogether  sorry  to  be  left  to  his  own  society. 
He  was,  in  fact,  rather  sharp-set  for  the  freedom  of  solitude, 
that  he  might  pursue  one  or  two  self-appointed  tasks  with 
out  interruption. 

For  one  of  these  Sum  Fat,  not  without  wonder,  fur 
nished  him  materials :  canvas,  stout  thread,  scissors,  a 
heavy  needle,  a  bit  of  beeswax :  w^ith  which  Whitaker 
purposed  manufacturing  an  emergency  ankle-strap.  And 
at  this  task  he  laboured  diligently  and  patiently  for  the 
better  part  of  two  hours,  with  a  result  less  creditable  to  his 
workmanship  than  to  a  nature  integrally  sunny  and  prone 
to  see  the  bright  side  of  things.  Whitaker  himself,  examin 
ing  the  finished  product  with  a  prejudiced  eye,  was  fain  to 
concede  its  crudity.  It  was  not  pretty,  but  he  believed 
fatuously  in  its  efficiency. 

His  other  task  was  purely  one  of  self-examination.  Since 
afternoon  he  had  found  reason  gravely  to  doubt  the  stability 
of  his  emotional  poise.  He  had  of  late  been  in  the  habit 
of  regarding  himself  as  one  whose  mind  retained  no  illusions ; 


THE    MOUSE-TRAP  175 

a  bit  prematurely  aged,  perhaps,  but  wise  with  a  wisdom 
beyond  his  years;  no  misogynist,  but  comfortably  woman- 
proof;  a  settled  body  and  a  sedate,  contemplating  with 
an  indulgent  smile  the  futile  antics  of  a  mad,  mad  world. 
But  now  he  was  being  reminded  that  no  man  is  older  than 
his  heart,  and  that  the  heart  is  a  headstrong  member,  apt  to 
mutiny  without  warning  and  proclaim  a  youth  quite  incon 
sistent  with  the  years  and  the  mentality  of  its  possessor. 
In  fine,  he  could  not  be  blind  to  the  fact  that  he  was  in 
grave  danger  of  making  an  ass  of  himself  if  he  failed  to 
guide  himself  with  unwonted  circumspection. 

And  all  because  he  had  an  eye  and  a  weakness  for  fair 
women,  a  lonely  path  to  tread  through  life,  and  a  gregarious 
tendency,  a  humorous  faculty  and  a  keen  appreciation  of  a 
mind  responsive  to  it.  ... 

And  all  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that  he  was  not  at  liberty 
to  make  love.  .  .  . 

And  all  this  problem  the  result  of  a  single  day  of  pro 
pinquity  ! 

He  went  to  bed,  finally,  far  less  content  with  himself 
than  with  the  crazy  issue  of  his  handicraft.  The  latter  might 
possibly  serve  its  purpose ;  but  Hugh  Whitaker  seemed  a 
hopeless  sort  of  a  proposition,  not  in  the  least  amenable  to 
the  admonitions  of  common  sense.  If  he  were,  indeed,  he 
would  have  already  been  planning  an  abrupt  escape  to  Town. 
As  matters  stood  with  him,  he  knew  he  had  not  the  least 
intention  of  doing  anything  one-half  so  sensible. 

But  in  spite  of  his  half-hearted  perturbation  and  dissatis 
faction,  the  weariness  of  a  long,  full  day  was  so  heavy  upon 


176     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

him  that  he  went  to  sleep  almost  before  Sum  Fat  had  fin 
ished  making  him  comfortable. 

Extinguishing  the  candle,  the  Chinaman,  moving  with  the 
silent  assurance  of  a  cat  in  the  dark,  closed  and  latched  the 
shutters,  then  sat  down  just  outside  the  living-room  door, 
to  wait  and  watch,  sleeplessly  alert. 

An  hour  passed  in  silence,  and  another,  and  yet  another : 
Sum  Fat  sat  moveless  in  the  shadow,  which  blended  so 
perfectly  with  his  dark  blue-silk  garments  as  to  render  him 
almost  indistinguishable :  a  figure  as  patient  and  imper 
turbable  as  any  bland,  stout,  graven  god  of  his  religion. 
Slowly  the  moonlight  shifted  over  the  floor,  lengthened  un 
til  it  almost  touched  the  toe  of  one  of  his  felt-soled  shoes, 
and  imperceptibly  withdrew.  The  wind  had  fallen,  and 
the  night  was  very  quiet;  few  sounds  disturbed  the  still 
ness,  and  those  inconsiderable  :  the  steady  respiration  of  the 
sleeping  man;  such  faint,  stealthy  creakings  as  seemingly 
infest  every  human  habitation  through  the  night ;  the  dull 
lisp  and  murmur  of  the  tide  groping  its  way  along  the  shore ; 
the  muted  grumble  of  the  distant  surf ;  hushed  whisperings 
of  leaves  disturbed  by  wandering  airs. 

Sum  Fat  heard  all  and  held  impassive.  But  in  time  there 
fell  upon  his  ears  another  sound,  to  which  he  stirred,  if 
imperceptibly  —  drawing  himself  together,  tensing  and 
flexing  his  tired  muscles  while  his  eyes  shifted  quickly  from 
one  quarter  to  another  of  the  darkened  living-room  and 
the  still  more  dark  bed-chamber. 

And  yet,  apparently  all  that  had  aroused  him  was  the 
drowsy  whistle  of  a  whippoorwill. 


THE    MOUSE-TRAP  177 

Then,  with  no  other  presage,  a  shadow  flitted  past  one  of 
the  side  windows,  and  in  another  reappeared  more  substan 
tially  on  the  veranda.  Sum  Fat  grew  altogether  tense,  his 
gaze  fixed  and  exclusively  focussed  upon  that  apparition. 

Cautiously,  noiselessly,  edging  inch  by  inch  across  the 
veranda,  the  man  approached  the  door.  It  was  open, 
hooked  back  against  the  wall ;  only  the  wire  screen  was  in 
his  way.  Against  this  he  flattened  his  face;  and  a  full, 
long  minute  elapsed  while  he  carefully  surveyed  what  was 
visible  of  the  interior.  Even  Sum  Fat  held  his  breath 
throughout  that  interminable  reconnoissance. 

At  length,  reassured,  the  man  laid  hold  of  the  screen  and 
drew  it  open.  It  complained  a  little,  and  he  started  vio 
lently  and  waited  another  minute  for  the  alarm  which  did 
not  ensue.  Then  abruptly  he  slipped  into  the  room  and 
slowly  drew  the  screen  shut  behind  him.  Another  minute : 
no  sound  detectable  more  untoward  than  that  of  steady 
respiration  in  the  bedroom ;  with  a  movement  as  swift  and 
sinister  as  the  swoop  of  a  vulture  the  man  sprang  toward 
the  bedroom  door. 

Leaping  from  a  sitting  position,  with  a  bound  that  was 
little  less  than  a  flight  through  the  air,  the  Chinaman  caught 
him  halfway.  There  followed  a  shriek,  a  heavy  fall  that 
shook  the  bungalow,  the  report  of  a  revolver,  sounds  of 
scuffling  .  .  . 

Whitaker,  half  dazed,  found  himself  standing  in  the  door 
way,  regardless  of  his  injury. 

He  saw,  as  one  who  dreams  and  yet  is  conscious  that 
he  does  but  dream,  Ember  lighting  candles  —  calmly  apply- 


178     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

ing  the  flame  of  a  taper  to  one  after  another  as  he  made  a 
round  of  the  sconces.  The  moonlight  paled  and  the  windows 
turned  black  as  the  mellow  radiance  brightened. 

Then  a  slight  movement  in  the  shadow  of  the  table  drew 
his  attention  to  the  floor.  Sum  Fat  was  kneeling  there, 
on  all  fours,  above  something  that  breathed  heavily  and 
struggled  without  avail. 

Whitaker's  sleep-numbed  faculties  cleared. 

"Ember!"  he  cried.  "What  in  the  name  of  all  things 
strange  — !" 

Ember  threw  him  a  flickering  smile.  "  Oh,  there  you  are  ?  " 
he  said  cheerfully.  "I've  got  something  interesting  to  show 
you.  Sum  Fat"  -he  stooped  and  picked  up  a  revolver 

"you  may  let  him  up,  now,  if  you  think  he's  safe." 

"Safe  enough."  Sum  Fat  rose,  grinning.  "Had  damn 
plenty." 

He  mounted  guard  beside  the  door. 

For  an  instant  his  captive  seemed  reluctant  to  rise ;  free, 
he  lay  without  moving,  getting  his  breath  in  great  heaving 
sobs;  only  his  gaze  ranged  ceaselessly  from  Ember's  face 
to  Whitaker's  and  back  again,  and  his  hands  opened  and 
closed  convulsively. 

Ember  moved  to  his  side  and  stood  over  him,  balancing  the 
revolver  in  his  palm. 

"Come,"  he  said  impatiently.     "Up  with  you!" 

The  man  sat  up  as  if  galvanized  by  fear,  got  more  slowly 
to  his  knees,  then,  grasping  the  edge  of  the  table,  dragged 
himself  laboriously  to  a  standing  position.  He  passed  a  hand 
uncertainly  across  his  mouth,  brushed  the  hair  out  of  his 


THE    MOUSE-TRAP  179 

eyes  and  tried  to  steady  himself,  attempting  to  infuse  defiance 
_jnto  his  air,  even  though  cornered,  beaten  and  helpless. 

Whitaker's  jaw  dropped  and  his  eyes  widened  with  won 
der  and  pity.  He  couldn't  deny  the  man,  yet  he  found  it 
hard  to  believe  that  this  quivering,  shaken  creature,  with 
his  lean  and  pasty  face  and  desperate,  glaring  eyes,  this  man 
in  rough,  stained,  soiled  and  shapeless  garments,  could  be 
identical  with  the  well  set-up,  prosperous  and  confident  man 
of  affairs  he  remembered  as  Drummond.  And  yet  they 
were  one.  Appalling  to  contemplate  the  swift  devastating 
course  of  moral  degeneration,  that  had  spread  like  gangrene 
through  all  the  man's  physical  and  mental  fibre  .  .  . 

"Take  a  good  look,"  Ember  advised  grimly.  "How 
about  that  pet  myth  thing,  now?  What  price  the  astute 
sleuth  —  eh  ?  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  take  a  few  more  funny 
cracks  at  my  simple  faith  in  hallucinations." 

"Good  God!"  said  Whitaker  in  a  low  voice,  unable  to 
remove  his  gaze  from  Drummond. 

"I  had  a  notion  he'd  be  hanging  round,"  Ember  went 
on;  "I  thought  I  saw  somebody  hiding  in  the  woods  this 
afternoon ;  and  then  I  was  sure  I  saw  him  skulking  round 
the  edges  of  the  clearing,  after  dinner.  So  I  set  Sum  Fat 
to  watch,  drove  back  to  the  village  to  mislead  him,  left  my 
car  there  and  walked  back.  And  sure  enough  —  !" 

Without  comment,  Whitaker,  unable  to  stand  any  longer 
without  discomfort,  hobbled  to  a  chair  and  sat  down. 

"Well?"  Drummond  demanded  harshly  in  a  quaver 
ing  snarl.  "Now  that  you've  got  me,  what're  you  going 
to  do  with  me?" 


180     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

There  was  a  high,  hysterical  accent  in  his  voice  that 
struck  unpleasantly  on  Ember's  ear.  He  cocked  his  head 
to  one  side,  studying  the  man  intently. 

Drummond  flung  himself  a  step  away  from  the  table, 
paused,  and  again  faced  his  captors  with  bravado. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  cried  again.     "  Well  ?  " 

Ember  nodded  toward  Whitaker.  "Ask  him,"  he  said 
briefly. 

Whitaker  shook  his  head.  It  was  difficult  to  think  how 
to  deal  with  this  trapped  animal,  so  wildly  different  from 
the  cultivated  gentleman  he  always  had  in  mind  when  he 
thought  of  Drummond.  The  futility  of  attempting  to 
deal  with  him  according  to  any  code  recognized  by  men  of 
honour  was  wretchedly  apparent. 

"Drummond,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  wish  to  God  you  hadn't 
done  this  thing." 

Drummond  laughed  discordantly.  "Keep  your  mealy- 
mouthed  compassion  for  yourself,"  he  retorted,  sneering. 
"I'm  no  worse  than  you,  only  I  got  caught."  He  added  in 
a  low  tone,  quivering  with  uncontrollable  hatred :  "  Damn 


you 


Whitaker  gave  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  If  you'd  only  been 
content  to  keep  out  of  the  way  .  .  .  !  If  only  you'd  let 
me  alone  — 

"Then  you  let  Sara  Law  alone,  d'you  hear?" 
^Surprised,    Whitaker    paused    before    replying.     "Please 
understand,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  Mrs.  Whitaker  is  seek 
ing  a  divorce  from  me.     After  that,  if  she  has  any  use  for 
you,  I  have  no  objection  to  her  marrying  you.     And   as 


THE    MOUSE-TRAP  181 

for  the  money  you  stole,  I  have  said  nothing  about  that  — 
-intend  to  say  nothing.    If  you'd  had  the  sense  to  explain  things 
to  me  —  if  I  could  count   on   you  to  leave  me  alone  and 
not  try  again  to  murder  me  — 

"Oh,  goto  hell!" 

The  interruption  was  little  short  of  a  shriek.  Ember 
motioned  to  Sum  Fat,  who  quietly  drew  nearer. 

"I  swear  I  don't  know  what  to  do  or  say  — 

"Then  shut  up—" 

"That'll  be  about  all,"  Ember  interposed  quietly.  At  a 
glance  from  him,  Sum  Fat  closed  in  swiftly  and  caught  and 
pinioned  Drummond's  arms  from  behind. 

A  disgusting  change  took  place  in  Drummond.  In  an 
instant  he  was  struggling,  screaming,  slavering :  his  face 
congested,  eyes  starting,  features  working  wildly  as  he  turned 
and  twisted  in  his  efforts  to  free  himself. 

Sum  Fat  held  him  as  he  would  have  held  an  unruly  child. 
Whitaker  looked  away,  feeling  faint  and  sick.  Ember 
looked  on  with  shrewd  and  penetrating  interest,  biding 
the  time  when  a  break  in  Drummond's  ravings  would  let 
him  be  heard.  When  it  came  at  length,  together  with  a 
gradual  weakening  of  the  man's  struggles,  the  detective 
turned  to  Whitaker. 

"Sorry,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  dare  take  any  further 
chances.  He  'd  Ve  been  at  your  throat  in  another  minute. 
I  could  see  him  working  himself  up  to  a  frenzy.  If  Sum 
Fat  hadn't  grabbed  him  in  time,  there's  no  telling  what 
might  not  have  happened." 
Whitaker  nodded. 


182     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"It  isn't  as  if  we  had  simply  an  everyday  crook  to  deal 
with,"  Ember  went  on,  approaching  the  man.  "He's  not 
to  be  trusted  or  reasoned  with.  He's  just  short  of  a  raving 
morphomaniac,  or  I  miss  my  guess." 

With  a  quick  movement  he  caught  Drummond's  left  arm, 
pulled  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  back  to  the  elbow,  unbuttoned 
and  turned  back  his  cuff.  "  Hmm  —  yes,"  he  continued, 
bending  over  to  inspect  the  exposed  forearm,  in  spite  o£ 
Drummond's  efforts  to  twist  away.  "Deadly  work  of  the 
busy  little  needle.  Good  Lord,  he's  fairly  riddled  with 
punctures  !" 

"That   explains  .  .  ."     Whitaker   muttered,    sickened. 

"It  explains  a  lot."     Ember  readjusted  the  sleeve  and 
turned  away.     "And  it  shows  us  our  path  of  duty,  clear," 
he   continued,   despite    interruptions   from    the    maddened 
drug  fiend.     "  I  think  a  nice  little  sojourn  in  a  sanatorium  — 
what?" 

"Right,"  Whitaker  agreed,  relieved. 

"We'll  see  what  a  cure  does  for  him  before  we  indulge  in 
criminal  proceedings  —  shall  we  ?" 

"By  all  means." 

"Good."  Ember  glanced  at  his  watch.  "I'll  have  to 
hurry  along  now  —  must  be  in  town  not  later  than  nine 
o'clock  this  morning.  I'll  take  him  with  me.  No,  don'c 
worry  —  I  can  handle  him  easily.  It's  a  bit  of  a  walk  to  the 
village,  but  that  will  only  help  to  quiet  him  down.  I'll  be 
back  to-morrow ;  meanwhile  you'll  be  able  to  sleep  soundly 
unless  — 

He  checked,  frowning  thoughtfully. 


THE    MOUSE-TRAP  183 

"Unless  what?" 

-Ember  jerked  his  head  to  indicate  the  prisoner.  "Of 
course,  this  isn't  by  any  chance  the  fellow  you  mixed  it 
up  with  over  on  the  beach  —  and  so  forth?" 

"Nothing  like  him." 

"  Queer.  I  can't  find  any  trace  of  him  —  the  other  one  — 
nor  can  I  account  for  him.  He  doesn't  seem  to  fit  in  any 
where.  However"  -his  expression  lightened--  "I  dare 
say  you  were  right;  he's  probably  only  some  idle,  light- 
fingered  prowler.  I'd  keep  my  eyes  open  for  him,  but  I 
don't  really  believe  you  need  worry  much." 

Within  ten  minutes  he  was  off  on  his  lonely  tramp  through 
two  miles  of  woodland  and  as  many  more  of  little  travelled 
country  road,  at  dead  of  night,  with  a  madman  in  hand 
cuffs  for  sole  company. 


XIII 

OFFSHORE 

"You  ask  me,  I  think  very  excellent  damn  quick  cure." 

Sum  Fat  having  for  the  third  time  since  morning  anointed 
with  liniment  and  massaged  Whitaker's  ankle,  tenderly 
adjusted  and  laced  the  makeshift  canvas  brace,  drew  a  sock 
over  it,  and  then  with  infinite  care  inserted  the  foot  in  a 
high-cut  canvas  tennis  shoe. 

He  stood  up,  beaming. 

Whitaker  extended  his  leg  and  cast  a  critical  eye  over  the 
heavily  bandaged  ankle. 

"Anyway,"  he  observed,  "the  effect  is  arresting.  I  look 
like  a  half  Clydesdale." 

Sum  Fat's  eyes  clouded,  then  again  gleamed  with  benevo 
lent  interest.  "  You  take  it  easy  one  day  or  two  —  no  walk 
much  —  just  loaf  —  no  go  see  pretty  ladies  —  " 

"Go  'way,  you  heathen  —  go  clean  your  teeth!"  cried 
Whitaker,  indignantly. 

"  —  and  I  think  be  all  well  and  sound,"  concluded  Sum 
Fat. 

He  waddled  away,  chuckling. 

Waiting  till  he  was  well  out  of  sight,  Whitaker  got  up,  and 
with  the  aid  of  a  cane  made  a  number  of  tentative  experi 
ments  in  the  gentle  art  of  short-distance  pedestrianism. 
The  results  were  highly  satisfactory  :  he  felt  little  or  no  pain, 

184 


OFFSHORE  185 

thanks  to  Sum  Fat's  ice-packs  and  assiduous  attentions  in 
general ;  and  was  hampered  in  free  movement  solely  by  the 
stiff  brace  and  high-laced  shoe. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  felt  that  the  advice  to  which  he  had 
just  listened  was  sound ;  it  would  be  unwise  to  attempt  a 
neighbourly  call  within  at  least  another  twenty-four  hours. 

He  resumed  his  chair  on  the  veranda,  and  sighed.  It  was 
late  afternoon,  and  he  was  lonely.  After  the  interest  and 
excitement  of  the  preceding  day  and  night,  to-day  seemed 
very  dull  and  uneventful ;  it  had  been,  in  truth,  nothing  less 
than  stupid  —  a  mere  routine  of  meals  and  pipes  interrupted 
by  no  communication  from  the  outer  world  more  blood- 
stirring  than  the  daily  calls  of  the  village  grocer  and  butcher. 
Ember  had  not  telephoned,  as  Whitaker  had  hoped  he 
would ;  and  the  chatelaine  of  the  neighbouring  cottage  had 
not  manifested  any  interest  whatever  in  the  well-being  of 
the  damaged  amateur  squire  of  dames. 

Whitaker  felt  himself  neglected  and  abused.  He  inclined 
to  sulks.  The  loveliness  of  a  day  of  unbroken  calm  offered 
him  no  consolation.  Solitude  in  a  lonely  lodge  is  all  very 
well,  if  one  cares  for  that  sort  of  thing;  but  it  takes  two 
properly  to  appreciate  the  beauties  of  the  wilderness. 

The  trouble  with  him  was  (he  began  to  realize)  that  he 
had  lived  too  long  a  hermit.  For  six  years  he  had  been 
practically  isolated  and  cut  off  from  the  better  half  of  ex 
istence;  femininity  had  formed  no  factor  in  his  cosmos. 
Even  since  his  return  to  America  his  associations  had  been 
almost  exclusively  confined  to  the  wives  and  daughters  of  old 
friends,  the  former  favouring  him  only  with  a  calm  maternal 


186     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

patronage,  the  daughters  obviously  regarding  him  as  a  sort 
of  human  curio  old  enough  to  be  entitled  to  a  certain 
amount  of  respectful  consideration,  but  not  to  be  taken 
seriously-  "like  a  mummy,"  Whitaker  told  himself,  not 
without  sympathy  for  the  view-point  of  the  younger  gen 
eration. 

But  now,  of  a  sudden,  he  had  been  granted  a  flash  of  in 
sight  into  the  true  significance  of  companionship  between 
a  man  and  a  woman  who  had  something  in  common  aside 
from  community  in  their  generation.  Not  two  hours  al 
together  of  such  intercourse  had  been  his,  but  it  had  been 
enough  to  infuse  all  his  consciousness  with  a  vague  but 
irking  discontent.  He  wanted  more,  and  wanted  it  ar 
dently  ;  and  what  Whitaker  desired  he  generally  set  him 
self  to  gain  with  a  single-hearted  earnestness  of  purpose 
calculated  to  compass  the  end  in  view  with  the  least 
possible  waste  of  time. 

In  this  instance,  however,  he  was  handicapped  to  exas 
peration  by  that  confounded  ankle  ! 

Besides,  he  couldn't  in  decency  pursue  the  woman ;  she 
was  entitled  to  a  certain  amount  of  privacy,  of  freedom  from 
his  attentions. 

Furthermore,  he  had  no  right  as  yet  to  offer  her  atten 
tions.  It  seemed  necessary  frequently  to  remind  himself 
of  that  fact,  in  spite  of  the  vile  humour  such  reminders  as 
a  rule  aroused. 

He  passed  into  one  such  now,  scowling  darkly  in  the  face 
of  an  exquisite,  flawless  day. 

One  thing  was  settled,  he  assured  himself :  as  soon  as  he 


OFFSHORE  187 

was  able  to  get  about  with  comfort,  he  would  lose  no  time 
in  hunting  up  his  wife's  attorneys  and  finding  out  why 
they  were  slow  about  prosecuting  her  case.  Failing  satis 
faction  in  that  quarter  —  well,  he  would  find  some  way  to 
make  things  move.  It  wasn't  fair  to  him  to  keep  him  bound 
to  the  vows  of  a  farcical  union.  He  was  not  prepared  to 
submit  to  such  injustice.  He  would,  if  needs  must,  hire 
detectives  to  find  him  his  wife,  that  he  might  see  and  in  per 
son  urge  upon  her  his  equal  right  to  release  from  an  unnat 
ural  bondage  ! 

He  had  lashed  himself  into  a  very  respectable  transport 
of  resentful  rage  before  he  realized  what  way  his  thoughts 
were  leading  him;  but  he  calmed  down  as  quickly  when, 
chancing  to  lift  his  eyes  from  their  absorbed  study  of  the 
planks  composing  the  veranda  floor,  he  discovered  a  motor- 
boat  drawing  in  toward  the  landing-stage. 

At  once  a  smile  of  childlike  serenity  displaced  the  scowl. 
Instinctively  he  gathered  himself  together  to  rise,  but  on 
reconsideration  retained  his  seat,  gallantry  yielding  to  an 
intuitive  sense  of  dramatic  values ;  a  chair-bound  invalid 
is  a  much  more  sympathetic  object  than  a  man  demonstrat 
ing  a  surprisingly  quick  recovery  from  an  incapacitating 
accident. 

Nevertheless,  there  seemed  no  objection  to  his  return 
ing  a  cheerful  flourish  to  the  salute  of  a  slender  arm,  brown 
and  bare  to  the  point  where  a  turned-back  shirtwaist 
sleeve  met  a  rounded  elbow. 

At  precisely  the  proper  distance  from  the  dock,  the  motor 
ceased  its  purring ;  the  boat  swept  on,  white  water  crisping 


188     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

beneath  its  stem,  ripples  widening  fanlike  from  its  flanks  and 
sketching  sweeping  plumes  of  purple  on  the  calm  ultra 
marine  surface  —  its  speed  at  first  not  perceptibly  moderated. 
Gradually,  then,  it  yielded  to  the  passive  resistance  of  the 
waters,  moving  slower  and  more  slow  until  at  length  it  nosed 
the  landing-stage  with  a  touch  well-nigh  as  gentle  as  a  caress. 

Poised  lightly  over  the  bows,  the  woman  waited,  her  fig 
ure  all  in  wiiite  sharp-cut  against  the  blue  of  sky  and  water, 
with  an  effect  as  vital  as  it  was  graceful.  Then  at  the  right 
instant  leaping  to  the  dock  with  the  headwarp,  she  made  the 
little  vessel  fast  with  two  deft  half-hitches  round  the  out 
most  pile,  and  turning  came  swinging  to  dry  land  and  up 
the  gentle  slope  to  the  veranda,  ease  and  strength  and  joy  of 
living  inherent  in  every  flowing  movement,  matching  well 
the  bright  comeliness  of  her  countenance  and  the  shining 
splendour  of  her  friendly  eyes. 

No  imaginable  consideration,  however  selfish,  could  have 
kept  Whitaker  any  longer  in  his  chair. 

"The  most  amiable  person  I  know!"  he  cried,  elated. 
*  Greetings!" 

She  paused  by  the  steps,  looking  up,  a  fascinating  vision. 

"  No  —  please  !  I've  only  stopped  for  an  instant.  Do 
sit  down." 

"Shan't  — until  you  do." 

"But  I  really  can't  stop." 

She  ascended  the  steps  and  dropped  coolly  into  a  chair, 
laughing  at  her  own  lack  of  consistency.  Whitaker  resumed 
his  seat. 

"You're  really  able  to  stand  without  assistance?" 


OFFSHORE  189 

"  I'm  ashamed  to  admit  it.  Between  you  and  me  —  a 
dead  secret  —  there's  nothing  really  the  matter  with  me  any 
more.  Sum  Fat's  a  famous  physician.  I  could  run  a  race  — 
only  it's  pleasanter  to  pretend  I  mustn't." 

"Very  well.  Then  I  shan't  waste  any  more  sympathy 
on  you." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  can  move  only  at  the  cost  of  ex 
cruciating  agony." 

She  considered  him  with  a  sober  face  and  smiling  eyes. 
"I  don't  believe  you.  You're  a  fraud.  Besides,  I  didn't 
come  to  see  you  at  all ;  I  came  to  find  out  why  Mr.  Ember 
dares  so  to  neglect  me.  Did  you  deliver  my  invitation  ? " 

"I  did,  unwillingly.  He  was  desolated,  but  he  couldn't 
accept  —  had  to  run  back  to  town  immediately  after  dinner." 

"He's  as  great  a  fraud  as  you.  But  since  he  isn't  here, 
I  shall  go." 

She  got  up  with  a  very  evident  intention  of  being  as  good 
as  her  word.  Whitaker  in  despair  sought  wildly  for  an  ex 
cuse  to  detain  her. 

"  Please  —  I'm  famished  for  human  society.  Have  pity. 
Sit  down.  Tell  me  where  you've  been  with  the  boat." 

"  Merely  to  the  head  of  the  bay  to  have  the  gasoline  tanks 
filled.  A  most  boresome  errand.  They've  no  proper  facili 
ties  for  taking  care  of  motor-boats.  Imagine  having  to 
sit  with  your  hands  folded  while  garrulous  natives  fill  a 
sixty-gallon  tank  by  hand." 

"Expressions  of  profound  sympathy.  Tell  me  some 
more.  See,  I  even  consent  not  to  talk  about  myself  as  an 
extra  inducement  —  if  you'll  only  stay." 


190     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  No  —  really  —  unique  though  the  prospect  be  !  I 
left  Elise  and  the  cook  alone,  two  poor  defenceless  women ; 
the  gardener  is  taking  his  weekly  day-off  in  the  village.  We 
won't  see  anything  of  him  till  morning,  probably  —  when 
he'll  show  up  very  meek  and  damp  about  the  head." 

"Aren't  you  afraid?" 

"I?  Nonsense!  I'm  shamelessly  able-bodied  —  and 
not  afraid  to  pull  a  trigger,  besides.  Moreover,  there  aren't 
any  dangerous  characters  in  this  neighbourhood." 

"Then  I  presume  it's  useless  for  me  to  offer  my  services 
as  watch-dog?" 

"Entirely  so.  And  when  I  choose  a  protector,  I  shall 
pick  out  one  sound  of  limb  as  well  as  wind." 

"Snubbed,"  he  said  mournfully.  "And  me  that  lone 
some  .  .  .  Think  of  the  long,  dull  evening  I've  got  to  live 
through  somehow." 

"I  have  already  thought  of  it.  And  being  kind-hearted, 
it  occurred  to  me  that  you  might  be  one  of  those  mean- 
spirited  creatures  who  can  enjoy  double-dummy." 

"It's  the  only  game  I  really  care  for  with  a  deathless  pas 
sion." 

"Then,  if  I  promise  to  come  over  this  evening  and  play 
you  a  rubber  or  two  —  will  you  permit  me  to  go  home  now  ?  " 

"On  such  terms  I'll  do  anything  you  can  possibly  sug 
gest,"  he  declared,  enchanted.  "You  mean  it  —  honest 
Injun?" 

"  Cross  my  heart  and  hope  to  die  - 

"But  .  .  .  how  will  you  get  here?  Not  alone,  through 
the  woods !  I  can't  permit  that." 


OFFSHORE  191 

"Elise  shall  row  me  down  the  shore  and  then  go  back  to 
keep  cook  company.  Sum  Fat  can  see  me  home  —  if  you 
"find  it  still  necessary  to  keep  up  the  invalid  pose." 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  laughed,  "I  shall  call  my  own  bluff.  .  .  . 
Must  you  really  go  so  soon  ?  " 

"Good  afternoon,"  she  returned  demurely;  and  ran  down 
the  steps  and  off  to  her  boat. 

Smiling  quietly  to  himself,  Whitaker  watched  her  cast 
the  boat  off,  get  under  way,  and  swing  it  out  of  sight  behind 
the  trees.  Then  his  smile  wavered  and  faded  and  gave 
place  to  a  look  of  acute  discontent. 

He  rose  and  limped  indoors  to  ransack  Ember's  wardrobe 
for  evening  clothes  —  which  he  failed,  perhaps  fortunately, 
to  find. 

He  regarded  with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  desolation 
the  tremendous  arid  waste  of  time  which  must  intervene 
before  he  dared  expect  her :  a  good  four  hours  —  no,  four  and 
a  half,  since  she  would  in  all  likelihood  dine  at  a  sensible 
hour,  say  about  eight  o'clock.  By  half-past  eight,  then, 
he  might  begin  to  look  for  her;  but,  since  she  was  indis 
putably  no  woman  to  cheapen  herself,  she  would  probably 
keep  him  waiting  till  nearly  nine. 

Colossal  waste  of  time,  impossible  to  contemplate  with 
out  exacerbation  .  .  .  ! 

To  make  matters  worse,  Sum  Fat  innocently  enough 
served  Whitaker's  dinner  promptly  at  six,  under  the  misap 
prehension  that  a  decent  consideration  for  his  foot  would 
induce  the  young  man  to  seek  his  bed  something  earlier 
than  usual. 


192     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Three  mortal  hours  to  fritter  away  in  profitless  anticipa 
tion  .  .  . 

At  seven  Whitaker  was  merely  nervous. 

By  eight  he  was  unable  to  sit  still. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  house  was  too  small  to  contain  him. 
He  found  his  cane  and  took  to  the  veranda,  but  only  to  be 
driven  from  its  shelter  by  a  swarm  of  mosquitoes  attracted  by 
the  illuminated  windows.  Not  in  the  least  resentful,  since 
his  ankle  was  occasioning  him  no  pain  whatever,  he  strolled 
down  toward  the  shore :  not  a  bad  idea  at  all  —  to  be  there 
to  welcome  her. 

The  night  was  loud  and  dark.  The  moon  was  not  to 
rise  for  another  half-hour,  and  since  sundown  the  wind  had 
come  in  from  the  southwest  to  dissipate  the  immaculate  day 
long  calm  and  set  the  waters  and  the  trees  in  motion  with 
its  urgent,  animating  breath.  Blowing  at  first  fitfully,  it 
was  settling  momentarily  down  into  a  steady,  league-devour 
ing  stride,  strong  with  the  promise  of  greater  strength  to 
come. 

Whitaker  reflected :  "  If  she  doesn't  hurry,  she  won't 
come  by  boat  at  all,  for  fear  of  a  wetting." 

He  thought  again  :  "  And  of  course  —  I  might  Ve  known  — 
she  won't  start  till  moonrise,  on  account  of  the  light." 

And  again,  analyzing  the  soft,  warm  rush  of  air :  "  We'll 
have  rain  before  morning." 

He  found  himself  at  the  end  of  the  dock,  tingling  with 
impatience,  but  finding  some  little  consolation  in  the  rest 
less  sweep  of  the  wind  against  his  face  and  body.  He  stood 
peering  up  along  the  curve  of  the  shore  toward  the  other 


OFFSHORE  193 

landing-stage.  He  could  see  little  —  a  mere  impressionistic 
suggestion  of  the  shore-line  picked  out  with  the  dim,  semi- 
phosphorescent  glow  of  breaking  wavelets.  The  night  was 
musical  with  the  clash  of  rushing  waters,  crisp  and  lively 
above  the  long,  soughing  drone  of  the  wind  in  the  trees. 
Eastward  the  barrier  beach  was  looming  stark  and  black 
against  a  growing  greenish  pallor  in  the  sky.  A  mile 
to  the  westward,  down  the  shore,  the  landlocked  light 
house  reared  its  tower,  so  obscure  in  gloom  that  the  lamp 
had  an  effect  of  hanging  without  support,  like  a  dim  yellow 
Japanese  lantern  afloat  in  mid-air. 

Some  minutes  elapsed.  The  pallor  of  the  east  grew  more 
marked.  Whitaker  fancied  he  could  detect  a  figure  moving 
on  the  Fiske  dock. 

Then,  startled,  he  grew  conscious  of  the  thick  drone  of  a 
heavily-powered  motor  boat  near  inshore.  Turning  quickly, 
he  discovered  it  almost  at  once :  a  black,  vague  shape  not 
twenty  yards  from  where  he  stood,  showing  neither  bow  nor 
side-lights :  a  stealthy  and  mysterious  apparition  creeping 
'toward  the  dock  with  something  of  the  effect  of  an  animal 
?bout  to  spring. 

And  immediately  he  heard  a  man's  voice  from  the  boat, 
abrupt  with  anger : 

"Not  this  place,  you  ass  —  the  next." 

"Shut  up,"  another  voice  replied.  "There's  somebody 
on  that  dock." 

At  the  same  time  the  bows  of  the  boat  swung  off  and  the 
shadow  slipped  away  to  westward  —  toward  the  Fiske  place. 

A  wondering  apprehension  of  some  nameless  and  desperate 


194     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

enterprise,  somehow  involving  the  woman  who  obsessed  his 
thoughts,  crawled  in  Whitaker's  mind.  The  boat  —  running 
without  cruising  lights  !  —  was  seeking  the  next  landing- 
stage.  Those  in  charge  of  it  had  certainly  some  reason  for 
wishing  to  escape  observation. 

Automatically  Whitaker  turned  back,  let  himself  down 
to  the  beach,  and  began  to  pick  his  way  toward  the  Fiske 
dock,  half  running  despite  his  stiff  ankle  and  following  a 
course  at  once  more  direct  and  more  difficult  than  the  way 
through  the  woods.  That  last  would  have  afforded  him 
sure  footing,  but  he  would  have  lost  much  time  seeking  and 
sticking  to  its  meanderings,  in  the  uncertain  light.  As  it 
was,  he  had  on  one  hand  a  low,  concave  wall  of  earth,  on  the 
other  the  wash  of  crisping  wavelets;  and  between  the  two 
a  yard-wide  track  with  a  treacherous  surface  of  wave- 
smoothed  pebbles  largely  encumbered  with  heavy  bolster- 
like  rolls  of  seaweed,  springy  and  slippery,  washed  up  by 
the  recent  gale. 

But  in  the  dark  and  formless  alarm  that  possessed  him, 
he  did  not  stop  to  choose  between  the  ways.  He  had  no 
time.  As  it  was,  if  there  were  anything  evil  afoot,  no 
earthly  power  could  help  him  cover  the  distance  in  time  to 
be  of  any  aid.  Indeed,  he  had  not  gone  half  the  way  before 
he  pulled  up  with  a  thumping  heart,  startled  beyond  expres 
sion  by  a  cry  in  the  night  —  a  cry  of  wild  appeal  and  pro 
test  thrown  out  violently  into  the  turbulent  night,  and 
abruptly  arrested  in  full  peal  as  if  a  hand  had  closed  the 
mouth  that  uttered  it. 

And  then  ringing  clear  down  the  wind,  a  voice  whose 


OFFSHORE  195 

timbre  was  unmistakably  that  of  a  woman :   "  Aux  secours  ! 
Aux  secours!" 

Twice  it  cried  out,  and  then  was  hushed  as  grimly  as  the 
first  incoherent  scream.  No  need  now  to  guess  at  what 
was  towards :  Whitaker  could  see  it  all  as  clearly  as  though 
he  were  already  there;  the  power-boat  at  the  dock,  two 
women  attacked  as  they  were  on  the  point  of  entering  their 
rowboat,  the  cry  of  the  mistress  suddenly  cut  short  by  her 
assailant,  the  maid  taking  up  the  appeal,  in  her  fright  un 
consciously  reverting  to  her  native  tongue,  in  her  turn  being 
forcibly  silenced.  .  .  . 

All  the  while  he  was  running,  heedless  of  his  injured  foot  — 
pitching,    slipping,    stumbling,   leaping  —  somehow  making 
progress. 

By  now  the  moon  had  lifted  above  the  beach  high  enough 
to  aid  him  somewhat  with  its  waxing  light ;  and,  looking 
ahead,  he  could  distinguish  dimly  shapes  about  the  dock 
and  upon  it  that  seemed  to  bear  out  his  most  cruel  fears. 
The  power-boat  was  passably  distinct,  her  white  side  show 
ing  plainly  through  the  tempered  darkness.  Midway  down 
the  dock  he  made  out  struggling  figures --two  of  them,  he 
judged  :  a  man  at  close  grips  with  a  frantic  woman.  And 
where  the  structure  joined  the  land,  a  second  pair,  again  a 
man  and  a  woman,  strove  and  swayed.  .  .  . 

And  always  the  night  grew  brighter  with  the  spectral  glow 
of  the  moon  and  the  mirroring  waters. 

For  all  his  haste,  he  was  too  slow  ;  he  was  still  a  fair  thirty 
yards  away  when  the  struggle  on  the  dock  ended  abruptly 
with  the  collapse  of  the  woman;  it  was  as  if,  he  thought, 


196     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

her  strength  had  failed  all  in  an  instant  —  as  if  she  had 
fainted.  He  saw  the  man  catch  her  up  in  his  arms,  where 
she  lay  limp  and  unresisting,  and  with  this  burden  step  from 
the  stage  to  the  boat  and  disappear  from  sight  beneath  the 
coaming.  An  instant  later  he  reappeared,  standing  at  full 
height  in  the  cockpit.  Without  warning  his  arm  straightened 
out  and  a  tongue  of  flame  jetted  from  his  hand ;  there  was  a 
report ;  in  the  same  breath  a  bullet  buried  itself  in  the  low 
earth  bank  on  Whitaker's  right.  Heedless,  he  pelted  on. 

The  shot  seemed  to  signal  the  end  of  the  other  struggle  at 
the  landing-stage.  Scarcely  had  it  rung  out  ere  Whitaker 
saw  the  man  lift  a  fist  and  dash  it  brutally  into  the  woman's 
face.  Without  a  sound  audible  at  that  distance  she  reeled 
and  fell  away ;  wiiile  the  man  turned,  ran  swiftly  out  to  the 
end  of  the  dock,  cast  off  the  headwarp  and  jumped  aboard 
the  boat. 

She  began  to  sheer  off  as  Whitaker  set  foot  upon  the 
stage.  She  was  twenty  feet  distant  when  he  found  himself 
both  at  its  end  and  at  the  end  of  his  resource.  He  was  to* 
late.  Already  he  could  hear  the  deeper  resonance  of  the 
engine  as  the  spark  was  advanced  and  the  throttle  opened. 
In  another  moment  she  would  be  heading  away  at  full  tilt. 

Frantic  with  despair,  he  thrashed  the  air  with  impotent 
arms :  a  fair  mark,  his  white  garments  shining  bright  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  land.  Aboard  the  moving  boat 
an  automatic  fluttered,  spitting  ten  shots  in  as  many  seconds. 
The  thud  and  splash  of  bullets  all  round  him  brought  him 
to  his  senses.  Choking  with  rage,  he  stumbled  back  to  the 
land. 


OFFSHORE  197 

On  the  narrow  beach,  near  the  dock,  a  small  flat-bottomed 
rowboat  lay,  its  stern  afloat,  its  bows  aground  —  as  it  had 
been  left  by  the  women  surprised  in  the  act  of  launching  it. 
Jumping  down,  Whitaker  put  his  shoulder  to  the  stem. 

As  he  did  so,  the  other  woman  roused,  got  unsteadily  to 
her  feet,  screamed,  then  catching  sight  of  him  staggered 
to  his  side.  It  was  —  as  he  had  assumed  —  the  maid, 
Elise. 

"M'sieur!"  she  shrieked,  thrusting  a  tragic  face  with 
bruised  and  blood-stained  mouth  close  to  his.  "Ah,  m'sieur 
• —  madame  —  ces  canailles-la  —  /" 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  said  brusquely.  "  Get  out  of  the  way  — 
don't  hinder  me  !" 

The  boat  was  now  all  afloat.  He  jumped  in,  dropped  upon 
the  middle  thwart,  and  fitted  the  oars  in  the  rowlocks. 

"But,  m'sieur,  what  mean  you  to  do  ?" 

"Don't  know  yet,"  he  panted  —  "follow  —  keep  them 
in  sight — " 

The  blades  dipped ;  he  bent  his  back  to  them ;  the  rowboat 
shot  away. 

A  glance  over  his  shoulder  showed  him  the  boat  of  the 
marauders  already  well  away.  She  now  wore  running  lights ; 
the  red  lamp  swung  into  view  as  he  glanced,  like  an  obscene 
and  sardonic  eye.  They  were,  then,  making  eastwards.  He 
wrought  only  the  more  lustily  with  the  oars. 

Happily  the  Fiske  motor-boat  swung  at  a  mooring  not  a 
great  distance  from  the  shore.  Surprisingly  soon  he  had 
the  small  boat  alongside.  Dropping  the  oars,  he  rose, 
grasped  the  coaming  and  lifted  himself  into  the  cockpit. 


198     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Then  scrambling  hastily  forward  to  the  bows,  he  disengaged 
the  mooring  hook  and  let  it  splash.  As  soon  as  this  happened, 
the  liberated  Trouble  began  to  drift  sluggishly  shoreward, 
swinging  broadside  to  the  wind. 

Jumping  back  into  the  cockpit,  Whitaker  located  the 
switch  and  closed  the  battery  circuit.  An  angry  buzzing  broke 
out  beneath  the  engine-pit  hatch,  but  was  almost  instantly 
drowned  out  by  the  response  of  the  motor  to  a  single  turn 
of  the  new-fangled  starting-crank  which  Whitaker  had 
approved  on  the  previous  morning. 

He  went  at  once  to  the  wheel.  Half  a  mile  away  the  red 
light  was  slipping  swiftly  eastward  over  silvered  waters. 
He  steadied  the  bows  toward  it,  listening  to  the  regular  and 
businesslike  chug-chug  of  the  motor  with  the  concentrated 
intentness  of  a  physician  with  an  ear  over  the  heart  of  a 
patient.  But  the  throbbing  he  heard  was  true  if  slow;  al 
ready  the  boat  was  responding  to  the  propeller,  resisting  the 
action  of  wind  and  water,  even  beginning  to  surge  heavily 
forward. 

Hastily  kicking  the  hatch  cover  out  of  the  way,  he  bent 
over  the  open  engine-pit,  quickly  solved  the  puzzle  of  the 
controlling  levers,  accelerated  the  ignition  and  opened  the 
throttle  wide.  The  motor  answered  this  manipulation 
with  an  instantaneous  change  of  tune;  the  staccato  drum 
ming  of  the  slow  speed  merged  into  a  long,  incessant  rumble 
like  the  roll  of  a  dozen  muffled  snare-drums.  The  Trouble 
leaped  out  like  a  live  thing,  settling  to  its  course  with  the 
fleet  precision  of  an  arrow  truly  loosed. 

With  a  brief  exclamation  of  satisfaction,  Whitaker  went 


OFFSHORE  199 

back  to  the  wheel,  shifted  the  ignition  from  batteries  to 
_jnagneto ;  and  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  appreciated  the 
magnitude  of  the  outrage  found  himself  with  time  to  think, 
to  take  stock  of  his  position,  to  consider  what  he  had  already 
accomplished  and  what  he  must  henceforward  hold  himself 
prepared  to  attempt.  Up  to  that  moment  he  had  acted 
almost  blindly,  swayed  by  impulse  as  a  tree  by  the  wind, 
guided  by  unquestioning  instinct  in  every  action.  Now  .  .  . 

He  had  got  the  boat  under  way  with  what  in  retrospect 
appealed  to  him  as  amazing  celerity,  bearing  in  mind  his 
unfamiliarity  with  its  equipment.  The  other  boat  had  a 
lead  of  little  if  any  more  than  half  a  mile ;  or  so  he  gauged  the 
distance  that  separated  them,  making  due  allowance  for 
the  illusion  of  the  moon-smitten  night.  Whether  that 
gap  was  to  diminish  or  to  widen  wrould  develop  before  many 
minutes  had  passed.  The  Trouble  was  making  a  fair  pace : 
roughly  reckoned,  between  fourteen  and  sixteen  miles  an  hour. 
He  suspected  the  other  boat  of  having  more  power,  but  this 
did  not  necessarily  imply  greater  speed.  At  all  events  (he 
concluded)  twenty  minutes  at  the  outside  would  see  the  end 
of  the  chase  —  however  it  was  to  end :  the  eastern  head  of 
the  bay  was  not  over  five  miles  away;  they  could  not 
long  hold  to  their  present  course  without  running  aground. 

He  hazarded  wild  guesses  as  to  their  plans :  of  which  the 
least  implausible  was  that  they  were  making  for  some  out- 
of-the-way  landing,  intending  there  to  transfer  to  a  motor 
car.  At  least,  this  would  presumably  prove  to  be  the  case, 
if  the  outrage  were  what,  at  first  blush,  it  gave  evidence  of 
being :  a  kidnapping  uncomplicated  by  any  fouler  motive.  .  .  . 


200     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

And  what  else  could  it  be  ?  ...  But  who  was  he  to  say  ? 
What  did  he  know  of  the  woman,  of  her  antecedents  and 
circumstances  ?  Nothing  more  than  her  name,  that  she  had 
attracted  him  —  as  any  handsome  woman  might  have  - 
that  she  had  been  spied  upon  within  his  personal  knowledge 
and  had  now  been  set  upon  and  carried  off  by  force  majeure. 

And  knowing  no  more  than  this,  he  had  without  an  instant's 
thought  of  consequences  elected  himself  her  champion  !  O 
headlong  and  infatuate ! 

Probably  no  more  severe  critic  of  his  own  chivalric  fool 
ishness  ever  set  himself  to  succour  a  damsel  in  distress. 
Withal  he  entertained  not  the  shadow  of  a  thought  of  drawing 
back.  As  long  as  the  other  boat  remained  in  sight;  as 
long  as  the  gasoline  and  his  strength  held  out ;  as  long  as  the 
Trouble  held  together  and  he  retained  the  wit  to  guide  her— 
so  long  was  Whitaker  determined  to  stick  to  the  wake  of  the 
kidnappers. 

A  little  more  than  halfway  between  their  starting-point 
and  the  head  of  the  bay,  the  leading  boat  swung  sharply  in 
toward  the  shore,  then  shot  into  the  mouth  of  a  narrow 
indentation.  Whitaker  found  that  he  was  catching  up  quickly, 
showing  that  speed  had  been  slackened  for  this  manoeuvre. 
But  the  advantage  was  merely  momentary,  soon  lost.  The 
boat  slipped  out  of  sight  between  high  banks.  And  he, 
imitating  faithfully  its  course,  was  himself  compelled  to 
throttle  down  the  engine,  lest  he  run  aground. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  he  could  see  nothing  of  the  other. 
Then  he  emerged  from  a  tortuous  and  constricted  channel 
into  a  deep  cut,  perhaps  fifty  feet  in  width  and  spanned  by 


OFFSHORE  201 

a  draw-bridge  and  a  railroad  trestle.  At  the  farther  end 
of  this  tide-gate  canal  connecting  the  Great  West  Bay  with 
'the  Great  Peconic,  the  leading  power  boat  was  visible,  heading 
out  at  full  speed.  And  by  the  time  he  had  thrown  the  motor 
of  the  Trouble  back  into  its  full  stride,  the  half-mile  lead  was 
fully  reestablished,  if  not  improved  upon. 

The  tide  was  setting  in  through  the  canal  —  otherwise  th< 
gates  had  been  closed  —  with  a  strength  that  taxed  the 
Trouble  to  surpass.  It  seemed  an  interminable  time  before 
the  banks  slipped  behind  and  the  boat  picked  up  her  heels 
anew  and  swept  out  over  the  broad  reaches  of  the  Peconic 
like  a  hound  on  the  trail.  The  starboard  light  of  the  leader 
was  slowly  becoming  more  and  more  distinct  as  she  swung 
again  to  the  eastward.  That  way,  Whitaker  figured,  with 
his  brows  perplexed,  lay  Shelter  Island,  Greenport,  Sag 
Harbor  (names  only  in  his  understanding)  and  what  else 
he  could  not  say.  Here  he  found  himself  in  strange  wraters, 
knowing  no  more  than  that  the  chase  seemed  about  to  pene 
trate  a  tangled  maze  of  islands  and  distorted  channels,  in 
whose  intricacies  it  should  prove  a  matter  of  facility  to 
lose  a  pursuer  already  well  distanced. 

Abandoning  the  forward  wheel  in  favour  of  that  at  the  side, 
near  the  engine  pit,  for  a  time  he  divided  his  attention  between 
steering  and  tinkering  with  the  motor,  with  the  result  that 
the  Trouble  began  presently  to  develop  more  speed.  Slowly 
she  crept  up  on  the  leader,  until,  with  Robins  Island  abeam 
(though  he  knew  it  not  by  name)  the  distance  between  them 
had  been  abridged  by  half.  But  more  than  that  she  seemed 
unable  to  accomplish.  He  surmised  shrewdly  that  the 


others,  tardily  observing  his  gain,  had  met  it  with  an  equal 
izing  demand  upon  their  motor  —  that  both  boats  were 
now  running  at  the  extreme  of  their  power.  The  Trouble, 
.at  least,  could  do  no  better.  To  this  he  must  be  resigned. 

Empty  of  all  other  craft,  weird  and  desolate  in  moonlight, 
the  Little  Peconic  waters  widened  and  then  narrowed  about 
the  flying  vessels.  Shore  lights  watched  them,  now  dim 
and  far,  now  bright  and  near  at  hand.  Shelter  Island  Sound 
received  them,  slapped  their  flanks  encouragingly  with  its 
racing  waves,  sped  them  with  an  ebbing  tide  that  tore 
seawards  between  constricted  shores,  carried  them  past 
high-wooded  bluffs  and  low  wastes  of  sedge,  past  simple 
cottage  and  pretentious  country  home,  past  bobbing  buoys  — 
nun  and  can  and  spar  —  and  moored  flotillas  of  small  pleasure 
craft,  past  Sag  Harbor  and  past  Cedar  Island  Light,  de 
livering  them  at  length  into  the  lonelier  wastes  of  Gardiner's 
Bay.  Their  relative  positions  were  unchanged :  still  the 
Trouble  retained  her  hard-won  advantage. 

But  it  was  little  comfort  that  Whitaker  derived  from  con 
templation  of  this  fact.  He  was  beginning  to  be  more 
definitely  perplexed  and  distressed.  He  had  no  watch  with 
him,  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  time  even  roughly ;  but 
unquestionably  they  had  been  upwards  of  two  hours  if  not 
more  at  full  tilt,  and  now  were  braving  wilder  waters ;  and 
still  he  saw  no  sign  of  anything  resembling  a  termination 
of  the  adventure.  In  fact,  they  were  leaving  behind  them 
every  likely  landing  place. 

"Damn  it!"  he  grumbled.  "What  are  they  aiming  at 
—  Boston?" 


OFFSHORE  203 

Near  the  forward  wheel  a  miniature  binnacle  housing  a 
-compass  with  phosphorescent  card,  advised  him  from  time  to 
time,  as  he  consulted  it,  of  the  lay  of  their  course.  They  were 
just  then  ploughing  almost  due  northeast  over  a  broad 
expanse,  beckoned  on  by  the  distant  flicker  of  a  gas-buoy. 
But  the  information  was  less  than  worthless,  and  every 
reasonable  guess  he  might  have  made  as  to  their  next  move 
would  have  proved  even  more  futile  than  merely  idle;  for 
when  they  had  rounded  the  buoy,  instead  of  standing,  as 
any  reasonable  beings  might  have  been  expected  to,  on  to 
Fisher's  Island  or  at  a  tangent  north  toward  the  Connecticut 
littoral,  they  swung  off  something  south  of  east  —  a  course 
that  could  lead  them  nowhere  but  to  the  immensities  of  the 
sea  itself. 

Whitaker's  breath  caught  in  his  throat  as  he  examined  this 
startling  prospect.  The  Atlantic  was  something  a  trifle  bigger 
than  he  had  bargained  for.  To  dare  its  temper,  with  a 
southwester  brewing  (by  every  weather  sign  he  knew)  in  what 
was  to  all  intents  an  open  boat,  since  he  would  never  be  able 
to  leave  the  cockpit  for  an  instant's  shelter  in  the  cabin  in 
any  sort  of  a  seawray  —  ! 

He  shook  a  dubious,  vastly  troubled  head.  But  he  held 
on  grimly  in  the  face  of  dire  forebodings. 

Once  out  from  under  the  lee  of  Gardiner's  Island,  a  heavier 
run  of  waves  beset  them,  catching  the  boats  almost  squarely  on 
the  beam  :  fortunately  a  sea  of  long,  smooth,  slow  shouldering 
rollers,  as  yet  not  angry.  Now  and  again,  for  all  that,  one 
would  favour  the  Trouble  with  a  quartering  slap  that  sent  a 
shower  of  spray  aboard  her  to  drench  Whitaker  and  swash 


THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

noisily  round  the  cockpit  ere  the  self-bailing  channels 
could  carry  it  off.  He  was  quickly  wet  to  the  skin  and 
shivering.  The  hour  was  past  midnight,  and  the  strong 
air  whipping  in  from  the  open  sea  had  a  bitter  edge.  His 
only  consolation  inhered  in  the  reflection  that  he  had  com 
panions  in  his  misery :  those  who  drove  the  leading  boat 
could  hardly  escape  what  he  must  suft'er;  though  he  hoped 
and  believed  that  the  woman  was  shut  below,  warm  and  dry 
in  the  cabin. 

Out  over  the  dark  waste  to  starboard  a  white  light  lifted, 
flashing.  For  a  while  a  red  eye  showed  beneath  it,  staring 
unwinkingly  with  a  steadfast  and  sardonic  glare,  then  dis 
appeared  completely,  leaving  only  the  blinking  white. 
Far  ahead  another  light,  fixed  white,  hung  steadily  over  the 
port  counter,  and  so  remained  for  over  an  hour. 

Then  most  gradually  the  latter  wore  round  upon  the  beam 
and  dropped  astern.  Whitaker  guessed  at  random,  but 
none  the  less  rightly,  that  they  were  weathering  Block  Island 
to  the  south  with  a  leeway  of  several  miles.  Indisputably 
the  Atlantic  held  them  in  the  hollow  of  its  tremendous  hand. 
The  slow,  eternal  deep-sea  swell  was  most  perceptible :  a 
ceaseless  impulse  of  infinite  power  running  through  the 
pettier,  if  more  threatening,  drive  of  waves  kicked  up  by  the 
wind.  Fortunately  the  course,  shifting  to  northeast  by 
east,  presently  took  them  out  of  the  swinging  trough  of  the 
sea.  The  rollers  now  led  them  on,  an  endless  herd,  one 
after  another  falling  sullenly  behind  as  the  two  boats  shot 
down  into  their  shallow  intervals  and  began  to  creep  slowly 
up  over  the  long  gray  backs  of  those  that  ran  before. 


OFFSHORE  205 

It  was  after  three  in  the  morning,  and,  though  Whitaker 
had  no  means  of  knowing  it,  they  were  on  the  last  and  longest 
leg  of  the  cruise.  They  still  had  moonlight,  but  it  was  more 
wan  and  ghastly  and  threatened  presently  to  fail  them  al 
together,  blotted  out  by  the  thickening  weather.  The 
wind  was  blowing  with  an  insistent,  unintermittent  force  it 
had  not  before  developed.  A  haze,  vaguely  opalescent, 
encircled  the  horizon  like  a  ghost  of  absinthe.  The  cold, 
formless,  wavering  dusk  of  dawn  in  time  lent  it  a  sickly  hue 
of  gray  together  with  a  seeming  more  substantial.  Swathed 
in  its  smothering  folds,  the  moon  faded  to  the  semblance  of  a 
plaque  of  dull  silver,  then  vanished  altogether.  By  four- 
thirty,  when  the  twilight  was  moderately  bright,  Whitaker 
was  barely  able  to  distinguish  the  leading  boat.  The  two 
seemed  as  if  suspended,  struggling  like  impaled  insects,  the 
one  in  the  midst,  the  other  near  the  edge,  of  a  watery  pit 
walled  in  by  vapours. 

He  recognized  in  this  phenomenon  of  the  weather  an  ex 
ceptionally  striking  variation  of  what  his  sea-going  experience 
had  taught  him  to  term  a  smoky  sou'wester. 

That  hour  found  him  on  the  verge  of  the  admission  that  he 
was,  as  he  would  have  said,  about  all  in  :  the  limit  of  endur 
ance  nearly  approached.  He  was  half-dazed  with  fatigue: 
his  wet  skin  crawled  with  goose-flesh ;  his  flesh  itself  was 
cold  as  stone.  In  the  pit  of  his  stomach  lurked  an  indefinite, 
sickening  sensation  of  chilled  emptiness.  His  throat  was 
sore  and  parched,  his  limbs  stiff  and  aching,  his  face  crusted 
with  stinging  particles  of  salt,  his  eves  red,  sore  and  smarting. 
If  his  ankle  troubled  him,  he  was  not  aware  of  it ;  it  would  need 


206     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

sharp  agony  to  penetrate  the  aura  of  dull,  interminable 
misery  that  benumbed  his  consciousness. 

With  all  this,  he  tormented  himself  with  worry  lest  the 
tanks  run  dry.  Though  they  had  been  filled  only  the  day 
before,  he  had  no  clear  notion  of  the  horse-power  of  the 
motor  or  its  hourly  consumption  of  gasoline ;  and  the  drain 
upon  the  supply  could  not  have  been  anything  but  extraordi 
nary.  If  it  were  to  run  out  before  they  made  a  landing  or  safe 
anchorage,  he  would  find  himself  in  ticklish  straits ;  but  this 
troubled  him  less  than  the  fear  that  he  might  be  obliged  to 
give  up  the  chase  to  which  he  had  stuck  so  long  and  with  a 
pertinacity  which  somewhat  surprised  even  his  own  wonder. 

And  to  give  up  now,  when  he  had  fought  so  far  ...  it  was 
an  intolerable  thought.  He  protested  against  it  with  a  vain, 
bitter  violence  void  of  any  personal  feeling  or  any  pride  of 
purpose  and  endurance.  It  was  his  solicitude  for  the  woman 
alone  that  racked  him.  Whatever  the  enigmatic  animus 
responsible  for  this  outrage,  it  seemed  most  undeniable  that 
none  but  men  of  the  most  desperate  calibre  would  have  under 
taken  it  —  men  in  whose  sight  no  crime  would  be  abominable, 
however  hideous.  To  contemplate  her  fate,  if  abandoned 
to  their  mercies  .  .  .  ! 

The  end  came  just  before  dawn,  with  a  swiftness  that 
stunned  the  faculties — as  though  one  saw  the  naked  wrath  of 
God  leap  like  lightning  from  the  sky. 

They  were  precisely  as  they  had  been,  within  a  certain 
distance  of  one  another,  toiling  on  and  ever  on  like  strange 
misshapen  spirits  doomed  to  run  an  endless  race.  The  harsh, 
shapeless  light  of  imminent  day  alone  manufactured  a  colour 


OFFSHORE  207 

of  difference :  Whitaker  now  was  able  to  see  as  two  dark 
shapes  the  men  in  the  body  of  the  leading  boat.  The  woman 
was  not  visible,  but  the  doors  to  the  cabin  were  closed,  con 
firming  his  surmise  that  she  at  least  had  been  sheltered 
through  the  night.  One  of  the  men  was  standing  by  the 
wheel,  forward,  staring  ahead.  The  other  occupied  a  seat 
in  the  cockpit,  head  and  shoulders  alone  visible  above  the 
coaming.  For  the  most  part  he  seemed  sunk  in  lethargy, 
head  fallen  forward,  chin  on  chest;  but  now  and  then 
he  looked  up  and  back  at  the  pursuing  boat,  his  face  a 
featureless  patch  of  bleached  pink. 

Now  suddenly  the  man  at  the  wheel  cried  out  something 
in  a  terrible  voice  of  fright,  so  high  and  vehement  that  it  even 
carried  back  against  the  booming  gale  for  Whitaker  to  hear. 
Simultaneously  he  put  the  wheel  over,  with  all  his  might. 
The  other  jumped  from  his  seat,  only  to  be  thrown  back  as 
the  little  vessel  swung  broadside  to  the  sea,  heeling  until 
she  lay  almost  on  her  beam  ends.  The  next  instant  she 
ceased,  incredibly,  to  move  —  hung  motionless  in  that  resist 
less  surge,  an  amazing,  stupefying  spectacle.  It  seemed 
minutes  before  Whitaker  could  force  his  wits  to  comprehend 
that  she  had  struck  and  lay  transfixed  upon  some  submerged 
rock  or  reef. 

A  long,  gray  roller  swept  upon  and  over  her,  brimming  her 
cockpit  with  foaming  water.  As  it  passed  he  saw  the  half- 
drowned  men  release  the  coamings,  to  which  they  had  clung 
on  involuntary  impulse  to  escape  being  swept  away,  scramble 
upon  the  cabin  roof,  and  with  one  accord  abandon  themselves 
to  the  will  of  the  next  wave  to  follow.  As  it  broke  over  the 


208     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

boat  and  passed,  he  caught  an  instantaneous  glimpse  of  their 
heads  and  arms  bobbing  and  beating  frantically  as  they 
whirled  off  through  the  yeasty  welter. 

But  he  saw  this  without  pity  or  compassion.  If  he  had 
been  able  to  have  his  will  with  them,  he  would  have  sunk 
both  ten  fathoms  deep  without  an  instant's  respite.  His 
throat  was  choked  with  curses  that  welled  up  from  a  heart 
wrenched  and  raging  at  this  discovery  of  cowardice  un 
paralleled. 

They  had  done  what  they  could  for  themselves  without 
even  hesitating  to  release  the  woman  imprisoned  in  the  cabin. 


XIV 

DEBACLE 

THE  Trouble,  meantime,  was  closing  in  upon  the  scene 
of  tragedy  with  little  less  than  locomotive  speed.  Yet, 
however  suddenly  disaster  had  overtaken  the  other  vessel, 
Whitaker  saw  what  he  saw  and  had  time  to  take  meas 
ures  to  avoid  collision,  if  what  he  did  was  accomplished 
wholly  without  conscious  thought  or  premeditation.  He 
had  applied  the  reversing  gear  to  the  motor  before  he 
knew  it.  Then,  while  the  engine  choked,  coughing  angrily, 
and  reversed  with  a  heavy  and  resentful  pounding  in 
the  cylinder-heads,  he  began  to  strip  off  his  coat.  He  was 
within  ten  yards  of  the  wreck  when  a  wave  overtook  the 
Trouble  and  sent  a  sheet  of  water  sprawling  over  her  stern 
to  fill  the  cockpit  ankle-deep.  The  next  instant  he  swung 
the  wheel  over;  the  boat,  moving  forward  despite  the  re 
sistance  of  the  propeller,  drove  heavily  against  the  wreck, 
broadside  to  its  stern.  As  this  happened  Whitaker  leaped 
from  one  to  the  other,  went  to  his  knees  in  the  cockpit  of 
the  wreck,  and  rose  just  in  time  to  grasp  the  coaming  and 
hold  on  against  the  onslaught  of  a  hurtling  comber. 

It  came  down,  an  avalanche,  crashing  and  bellowing, 
burying  him  deep  in  green.  Thunderings  benumbed  him,  and 
he  began  to  strangle  before  it  passed.  .  .  . 

209 


210     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

He  found  himself  filling  his  lungs  with  free  air  and  fighting 
his  way  toward  the  cabin  doors  through  water  waist-deep. 
Then  he  had  won  to  them,  had  found  and  was  tearing 
frantically  at  the  solid  brass  bolt  that  held  them  shut.  In 
another  breath  he  had  torn  them  open,  wide,  discovering 
the  woman,  her  head  and  shoulders  showing  above  the  flood 
as  she  stood  upon  a  transom,  near  the  doorway,  grasping  a 
stanchion  for  support.  Her  eyes  met  his,  black  and  blank 
with  terror.  He  snatched  through  sheer  instinct  at  a  cir 
cular  life-preserver  that  floated  out  toward  him,  and  simul 
taneously  managed  to  crook  an  arm  round  her  neck. 

Again  the  sea  buried  them  beneath  tons  of  raging  dark 
water.  Green  lightnings  flashed  before  his  eyes,  and  in  his 
ears  there  was  a  crashing  like  the  crack  of  doom.  His  head 
was  splitting,  his  heart  on  the  point  of  breaking.  The 
wave  passed  on,  roaring.  He  could  breathe.  Now  if 
ever  .  .  . 

As  if  stupefied  beyond  sensibility,  the  woman  was  passive 
to  his  handling.  If  she  had  struggled,  if  she  had  caught 
at  and  clung  to  him,  or  even  if  she  had  tried  to  help  herself, 
he  would  in  all  likelihood  have  failed  to  cheat  destruction. 
But  she  did  none  of  these  things,  and  he  managed  somehow  to 
drag  her  from  the  cabin  to  the  cockpit  and  to  jam  the  life 
ring  over  her  head  and  under  one  arm  before  the  next  wave 
bore  down  upon  them. 

As  the  wall  of  living  green  water  drew  near,  he  twisted  one 
hand  into  the  life-line  of  the  cork  ring  and  lifted  the  woman 
to  the  seat  of  the  cockpit. 

They  were  borne  down,  brutally  buffeted,  smothered  and 


DEBACLE  211 

swept  away.  They  came  to  the  surface  in  the  hollow  of  a 
-deep,  gray  swale,  fully  fifty  feet  from  the  wreck.  Whitaker 
retained  his  grasp  of  the  life-preserver  line.  The  woman 
floated  easily  in  the  support.  He  fancied  a  gleam  of  livelier 
consciousness  in  her  staring  eyes,  and  noticed  with  a  curiously 
keen  feeling  of  satisfaction  that  she  was  not  only  keeping  her 
mouth  closed,  but  had  done  so,  apparently,  while  under  water. 

Relieved  from  danger  of  further  submersion,  at  all  events 
for  the  time  being,  he  took  occasion  to  rally  his  wits  and  look 
about  him  as  well  as  he  was  able.  It  was  easy,  now,  to 
understand  how  the  kidnappers  had  come  to  their  disaster; 
at  this  distance  he  could  see  plainly,  despite  the  scudding  haze, 
the  profile  of  a  high  bluff  of  wave-channelled  and  bitten  earth 
.  rising  from  a  boulder-strewn  beach,  upon  which  the  surf  broke 
with  a  roar  deafening  and  affrighting.  Even  a  hardy 
swimmer  might  be  pardoned  for  looking  askance  at  such  a 
landing.  And  Whitaker  had  a  woman  to  think  of  and  care 
for.  Difficult  to  imagine  how  he  was  to  drag  her,  and  himself, 
through  that  vicious,  pounding  surf,  without  being  beaten  to 
ielly  against  the  boulders  .  .  . 

Ls  the  next  billow  swung  them  high  on  its  racing  crest,  he, 
gaining  a  broader  field  of  vision,  caught  an  instantaneous 
impression  of  a  stark  shoulder  of  the  land  bulking  out  through 
the  mists  several  hundred  yards  to  the  left ;  suggesting  that 
the  shore  curved  inward  at  that  spot.  The  thought  came 
to  him  that  if  he  could  but  weather  that  point,  he  might 
possibly  find  on  the  other  side  a  better  landing-place,  out  of 
the  more  forcible,  direct  drive  of  surf.  It  would  be  next 
to  an  impossibility  to  make  it  by  swimming,  with  but  one 


arm  free,  and  further  handicapped  by  the  dead  weight  of  the 
woman.  And  yet  that  way  lay  his  only  hope. 

In  that  same  survey  he  saw  the  Tremble,  riding  so  low,  with 
only  bow  and  coamings  awash,  that  he  knew  she  must  be 
waterlogged,  rolling  beam-on  in  to  the  beach.  Of  the  two 
men  from  the  other  boat  he  saw  nothing  whatever.  And 
when  again  he  had  a  similar  chance  to  look,  the  hapless 
power-boat  was  being  battered  to  pieces  between  the  boulders. 
Even  such  would  be  their  fate  unless  .  .  . 

He  put  forth  every  ounce  of  strength  and  summoned  to  his 
aid  all  his  water  wisdom  and  skill.  But  he  fought  against 
terrible  odds,  and  there  was  no  hope  in  him  as  he  fought. 

Then  suddenly,  to  his  utter  amazement,  the  lift  of  a  wave 
discovered  to  him  a  different  contour  of  the  shore ;  not  that 
the  shore  had  changed,  but  his  position  with  regard  to  it 
had  shifted  materially  and  in  precisely  the  way  that  he 
had  wished  for  and  struggled  to  bring  about.  Instead  of 
being  carried  in  to  the  rock-strewn  beach,  they  were  in  the 
grip  of  a  backwash  which  was  bearing  them  not  only  out  of 
immediate  danger,  but  at  the  same  time  alongshore  toward 
the  point  under  whose  lee  he  hoped  to  find  less  turbulent 
conditions. 

It  was  quite  half  the  battle — more  than  half ;  he  had  now 
merely  to  see  that  the  set  of  this  backward  flow  did  not  drag 
them  too  far  from  shore.  Renewed  faith  in  his  star,  a  sense 
of  possible  salvation,  lent  strength  to  his  flagging  efforts. 
Slowly,  methodically,  he  worked  with  his  charge  toward 
the  landward  limits  of  the  current,  cunningly  biding  the 
time  to  abandon  it.  And  very  soon  that  time  came;  they 


DEBACLE  213 

were  abreast  the  point;  he  could  see  something  of  a 
broad,  shelving  beach,  backed  by  lesser  bluffs,  to  leeward 
of  it.  He  worked  free  of  the  set  with  a  mighty  expendi 
ture  of  force,  nervous  and  physical,  and  then  for  a  time, 
rested,  limiting  his  exertion  strictly  to  the  degree  requisite 
to  keep  him  afloat,  while  the  waves  rocked  him  landwards 
with  the  woman.  He  found  leisure  even  to  give  her  a  glance 
to  see  whether  she  still  lived,  was  conscious  or  comatose. 

He  found  her  not  only  fully  aware  of  her  position,  but 
actually  swimming  a  little  —  striking  out  with  more  free 
dom  than  might  have  been  expected,  considering  how  her 
arms  and  shoulders  were  hampered  by  the  life-ring.  A  sus 
picion  crossed  his  mind  that  most  probably  she  had  been 
doing  as  much  for  a  considerable  time,  that  to  her  as  much 
as  to  himself  their  escape  from  the  offshore  drift  had  been 
due.  Certainly  he  could  not  doubt  that  her  energies  had 
been  subjected  to  a  drain  no  less  severe  than  he  had  suffered. 
Her  face  was  bloodless  to  the  lips,  pale  with  the  pallor  of 
snow;  deep  bluish  shadows  ringed  eyes  that  had  darkened 
strangely,  so  that  they  seemed  black  rather  than  violet; 
her  features  were  so  drawn  and  pinched  that  he  almost 
wondered  how  he  could  have  thought  her  beautiful  beyond 
all  living  women.  And  her  wondrous  hair,  broken  from  its 
fastenings,  undulated  about  her  like  a  tangled  web  of  sodden 
sunbeams. 

Three  times  he  essayed  to  speak  before  he  could  wring 
articulate  sounds  from  his  cracked  lips  and  burning  throat. 

"You  .  .  .  all  right?" 

She  replied  with  as  much  difficulty : 


214     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Yes  .  .  .  you  may  ...  let  go  ..  ." 

To  relax  the  swollen  fingers  that  grasped  the  life-line  was 
pure  torture. 

He  attempted  no  further  communication.  None,  indeed, 
was  needed.  It  was  plain  that  she  understood  their  situation. 

Some  minutes  passed  before  he  became  aware  that  they 
were  closing  in  quickly  to  the  shelving  beach  —  so  swiftly, 
indeed,  that  there  was  reason  to  believe  the  onward  urge  of 
the  waves  measurably  re  enforced  by  a  shoreward  set  of 
current.  But  if  they  had  managed  to  escape  the  greater 
fury  on  the  weather  side  of  the  point,  they  had  still  a  strong 
and  angry  surf  to  reckon  with.  Only  a  little  way  ahead, 
breakers  were  flaunting  their  wrhite  manes,  while  the  thunder 
of  their  breaking  was  as  the  thundering  of  ten  thousand 
hoofs. 

Whitaker  looked  fearfully  again  at  the  woman.  But  she 
was  unquestionably  competent  to  care  for  herself.  Proof 
of  this  he  had  in  the  fact  that  she  had  contrived  to  slip  the 
life-preserver  up  over  her  head  and  discard  it  altogether. 
Thus  disencumbered,  she  had  more  freedom  for  the  impend 
ing  struggle. 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  They  were  on  the  line  of 
breakers.  Behind  them  a  heavy  comber  was  surging  in, 
crested  with  snow,  its  concave  belly  resembling  a  vast  sheet 
of  emerald.  In  another  moment  it  would  be  upon  them. 
It  was  the  moment  a  seasoned  swimmer  would  seize. 

His  eye  sought  the  girl's.  In  hers  he  read  understanding 
and  assent.  Of  one  mind,  they  struck  out  with  all  their 
strength.  The  comber  overtook  them,  clasped  them  to  its 


DEBACLE  215 

bosom,  tossed  them  high  upon  its  great  glassy  shoulder. 
They  fought  madly  to  retain  that  place,  and  to  such  purpose 
that  they  rode  it  over  a  dozen  yards  before  it  crashed  upon  the 
beach,  annihilating  itself  in  a  furious  welter  of  creaming  waters. 
Whitaker  felt  land  beneath  his  feet.  .  .  . 

The  rest  was  like  the  crisis  of  a  nightmare  drawn  out  to 
the  limit  of  human  endurance.  Conscious  thought  ceased  : 
terror  and  panic  and  the  blind  instinct  of  self-preserva 
tion —  these  alone  remained.  The  undertow  tore  at  Whit- 
aker's  legs  as  with  a  hundred  murderous  hands.  He  fought 
his  way  forward  a  few  paces  —  or  yard  or  two  —  only  to 
be  overwhelmed,  ground  down  into  the  gravel.  He  rose 
through  some  superhuman  effort  and  lunged  on,  like  a  blind, 
hunted  thing.  .  .  .  He  came  out  of  it  eventually  to  find 
himself  well  up  on  the  beach,  out  of  the  reach  of  the  waves. 
But  the  very  earth  seemed  to  billow  about  him,  and  he  could 
hardly  keep  his  feet.  A  numbing  faintness  with  a  painful 
retching  at  once  assailed  him.  He  was  but  vaguely  aware  of 
the  woman  reeling  not  far  from  him,  but  saved.  .  .  . 

Later  he  found  that  something  of  the  worst  effects  had  worn 
away.  His  scattered  wits  were  reestablishing  intercommuni 
cation.  The  earth  wras  once  more  passably  firm  beneath  him. 
He  was  leaning  against  the  careened  hulk  of  a  dismantled 
cat-boat  with  a  gaping  rent  in  its  side.  At  a  little  distance 
the  woman  was  sitting  in  the  sands,  bosom  and  shoulders 
heaving  convulsively,  damp,  matted  hair  veiling  her  like  a 
curtain  of  sunlit  seaweed. 

He  moved  with  painful  effort  toward  her.  She  turned 
up  to  him  her  pitiful,  writhen  face,  white  as  parchment. 


213     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Are  you  —  hurt?"  he  managed  to  ask.  "I  mean  — 
injured?" 

She  moved  her  head  from  side  to  side,  as  if  she  could  not 
speak  for  panting. 

"I'm  —  glad/'  he  said  dully.  "You  stay  —  here.  .  .  . 
I'll  go  get  help." 

He  raised  his  eyes,  peering  inland. 

Back  of  the  beach  the  land  rose  in  long,  sweeping  hillocks, 
treeless  but  green.  His  curiously  befogged  vision  made 
out  a  number  of  shapes  that  resembled  dwellings. 

"Go  .  .  .  get  .  .  .  help  .  .  ."  he  repeated  thickly. 

He  started  off  with  a  brave,  staggering  rush  that  carried 
him  a  dozen  feet  inland.  Then  his  knees  turned  to  water, 
and  the  blackness  of  night  shut  down  upon  his  senses. 


XV 

DISCLOSURES 

SLEEP  is  a  potent  medicine  for  the  mind  ;  but  sometimes 
the  potion  is  compounded  with  somewhat  too  heavy  a 
proportion  of  dreams  and  nonsense ;  when  it's  apt  to  play 
curious  tricks  with  returning  consciousness.  When  Whitaker 
awoke  he  was  on  the  sands  of  Narragansett,  and  the  after 
noon  was  cloudy-warm  and  bright,  so  that  his  eyes  were 
grateful  for  the  shade  of  a  white  parasol  that  a  girl  he  knew 
was  holding  over  him ;  and  his  age  was  eighteen  and  his 
cares  they  were  none;  and  the  girl  was  saying  in  a  lazy, 
laughing  voice:  "I  love  my  love  with  a  P  because  he's 
Perfectly  Pulchritudinous  and  Possesses  the  Power  of  Pleas 
ing,  and  because  he  Prattles  Prettily  and  his  socks  are 
Peculiarly  Purple  — 

"And,"  the  man  who'd  regained  his  youth  put  in,  "his 
name  is  Peter  and  he's  Positively  a  Pest  .  .  ." 

But  the  voice  in  which  he  said  this  was  quite  out  of  the 
picture  —  less  a  voice  than  a  croak  out  of  a  throat  kiln-dry 
and  burning.  So  he  grew  suspicious  of  his  senses ;  and  when 
the  parasol  was  transformed  into  the  shape  of  a  woman 
wearing  a  clumsy  jacket  of  soiled  covert-cloth  over  a  non 
descript  garment  of  weirdly  printed  calico  —  then  he  was 
sure  that  something  was  wrong  with  him. 

Besides,  the  woman  who  wasn't  a  parasol  suddenly  turned 

217 


THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

and  bent  over  him  an  anxious  face,  exclaiming  in  accents  of 
consternation :  "O  dear  !  If  he's  delirious  —  !" 

His  voice,  when  he  strove  to  answer,  rustled  and  rattled 
rather  than  enunciated,  surprising  him  so  that  he  barely 
managed  to  say:  "What  nonsense!  I'm  just  thirsty!" 
Then  the  circuit  of  returning  consciousness  closed  and  his 
lost  youth  slipped  forever  from  his  grasp. 

"I  thought  you  would  be,"  said  the  woman,  calmly;  "so 
I  brought  water.  Here  ..." 

She  offered  a  tin  vessel  to  his  lips,  as  he  lay  supine,  spill 
ing  a  quantity  of  its  contents  on  his  face  and  neck  and  a 
very  little  into  his  mouth,  if  enough  to  make  him  choke 
and  splutter.  He  sat  up  suddenly,  seized  the  vessel  —  a 
two-quart  milk-pail  —  and  buried  his  face  in  it,  gradually 
tilting  it,  while  its  cool,  delicious  sweetness  irrigated  his 
arid  tissues,  until  every  blessed  drop  was  drained.  Then, 
and  not  till  then,  he  lowered  the  pail  and  with  sane  vision 
began  to  renew  acquaintance  with  the  world. 

He  was  sitting  a  trifle  out  of  the  shallow  imprint  of  his 
body  in  the  sands,  in  the  lee  of  the  beached  cat-boat  he  now 
recalled  as  one  might  the  features  of  an  incubus.  The 
woman  he  had  rescued  sat  quite  near  him.  The  gale  was 
still  booming  overhead,  but  now  with  less  force  (or  so  he 
fancied) ;  and  the  surf  still  crashed  in  thunders  on  the 
beach  a  hundred  feet  or  more  away ;  but  the  haze  was  lighter, 
and  the  blue  of  the  sky  was  visible,  if  tarnished. 

Looking  straight  ahead  from  where  he  sat,  the  sands  curved 
off  in  a  wide  crescent,  ending  in  a  long,  sandy  spit.  Be 
yond  this  lay  a  broad  expanse  of  maddened  water,  blue  and 


DISCLOSURES 

white,  backed  by  the  empurpled  loom  of  a  lofty  headland, 
"dim  in  the  smoky  distance. 

On  his  right  lay  the  green  landscape,  reminiscent  even  as 
the  boat  was  reminiscent  in  whose  shadow  he  found  him 
self  :  both  fragments  of  the  fugitive  impressions  gathered 
in  that  nightmare  time  of  landing.  There  was  a  low, 
ragged  earth-bank  rising  from  the  sands  to  a  clutter  of 
ramshackle,  unpainted,  hideous  wooden  buildings  —  some 
hardly  more  than  sheds;  back  of  these  and  stretching 
away  on  either  hand,  a  spreading  vista  of  treeless  uplands, 
gently  undulant  and  richly  carpeted  with  grass  and  under 
growth  in  a  melting  scheme  of  tender  browns  and  greens 
and  yellows,  with  here  and  there  a  trace  of  dusky  red.  Mid 
way  between  the  beach  and  where  the  hazy  uplands  lifted 
their  blurred  profile  against  the  faded  sky,  set  some  dis 
tance  apart  from  the  community  of  dilapidated  structures, 
stood  a  commonplace  farm-house,  in  good  repair,  strongly 
constructed  and  neatly  painted  ;  with  a  brood  of  out  buildings. 
Low  stone  fences  lined  the  uplands  with  wandering  streaks 
of  gray.  Here  and  there,  in  scattered  groups  and  singly, 
sheep  foraged.  But  they  were  lonely  evidences  of  life.  No 
human  being  was  visible  in  any  quarter. 

With  puzzled  eyes  Whitaker  sought  counsel  and  enlighten 
ment  of  the  woman,  and  found  in  her  appearance  quite  as 
much  to  confound  anticipation  and  deepen  perplexity.  She 
was  hardly  to  be  identified  with  the  delightfully  normal,  es 
sentially  well-groomed  creature  he  remembered.  What  she 
had  worn  when  setting  forth  to  call  on  him,  accompanied 
by  her  maid,  the  night  before,  he  could  not  say;  but  it 


220     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

certainly  could  have  had  nothing  in  common  with  her  pres 
ent  dress  —  the  worn,  stained,  misshapen  jacket  covering 
her  shoulders,  beneath  it  the  calico  wrapper  scant  and  crude 
beyond  belief,  upon  her  feet  the  rusty  wrecks  that  once  had 
been  shoes. 

As  for  himself,  a  casual  examination  proved  that  the  rags 
and  tatters  adorning  him  were  at  least  to  be  recognized  as  the 
remains  of  his  own  clothing.  His  coat  was  lost,  of  course, 
and  his  collar  he  had  torn  away,  together  with  a  portion  of 
his  shirt,  while  in  the  water  after  the  disaster;  but  his 
once  white  flannel  trousers  were  precious  souvenirs,  even  if 
one  leg  was  ripped  open  to  the  knee,  and  even  though  the 
cloth  as  a  whole  had  contracted  to  an  alarming  extent  —  un 
comfortable  as  well ;  while  his  tennis  shoes  remained  toler 
ably  intact,  and  the  canvas  brace  had  shrunk  upon  his  ankle 
until  it  gripped  it  like  a  vise. 

But  all  these  details  he  absorbed  rather  than  studied,  in  the 
first  few  moments  subsequent  to  his  awakening.  His  chief- 
est  and  most  direct  interest  centred  upon  the  woman; 
and  he  showed  it  clearly  in  the  downright,  straightforward 
sincerity  of  his  solicitous  scrutiny.  And,  for  all  the  handi 
cap  of  her  outlandish  dress,  she  bore  inspection  wonderfully 
well. 

Marvellously  recuperative,  as  many  women  are,  she  had 
regained  all  her  ardent  loveliness ;  or,  if  any  trace  remained 
of  the  wear  and  tear  of  her  fearful  experience,  he  was  in  no 
condition  to  know  it,  much  less  to  carp.  There  was  warm 
color  in  the  cheeks  that  he  had  last  seen  livid,  there  was 
the  wonted  play  of  light  and  shadow  in  her  fascinating  eyes ; 


DISCLOSURES  221 

there  were  gracious  rounded  curves  where  had  been  sunken 
Surfaces,  hollowed  out  by  fatigue  and  strain;  and  there 
remained  the  ineluctable  allurement  of  her  tremendous 
vitality.  .  .  . 

"  You  are  not  hurt  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  You  are  —  all 
right?" 

"Quite,"  she  told  him  with  a  smile  significant  of  her  ap 
preciation  of  his  generous  feeling.  "I  wasn't  hurt,  and 
I've  recovered  from  my  shock  and  fright  —  only  I'm  still 
a  little  tired.  But  you?" 

"Oh,  I  ...  never  better.  That  is,  I'm  rested;  and 
there  was  nothing  else  for  me  to  get  over." 

"But  your  ankle—  ?" 

"I've  forgotten  it  ever  bothered  me.  .  .  .  Haven't 
you  slept  at  all?" 

"Oh,  surely  —  a  great  deal.  But  I've  been  awake  for 
some  time  —  a  few  hours." 

"  A  few  hours  !"  His  stare  widened  with  wonder.  "  How 
long  have  I—  ?" 

"All  day  — like  a  log." 

"But  I  --  !    What  time  is  it?" 

"  I  haven't  a  watch,  but  late  afternoon,  I  should  think  - 
going  by  the  sun.     It's  nearly  down." 

"Good  heavens  !"  he  muttered,  dashed.     "I  haw  slept !" 

"You  earned  your  right  to.  ...  You  needed  it  far 
more  than  I."  Her  eyes  shone,  warm  with  kindness. 

She  swayed  almost  imperceptibly  toward  him.  Her  voice 
was  low  pitched  and  a  trifle  broken  with  emotion : 

"You  saved  my  life  —  " 


222     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"I  —  ?    Oh,  that  was  only  what  any  other  man  — 

"None  other  did!" 

"  Please  don't  speak  of  it  —  I  mean,  consider  it  that  way," 
he  stammered.  "What  I  want  to  know  is,  where  are  we ?" 

Her  reply  was  more  distant.  "  On  an  island,  somewhere. 
It's  uninhabited,  I  think." 

He  could  only  echo  in  bewilderment :  "  An  island  .  .  .  ! 
Uninhabited  .  .  .  !"  Dismay  assailed  him.  He  got  up, 
after  a  little  struggle  overcoming  the  resistance  of  stiff  and 
sore  limbs,  and  stood  with  a  hand  on  the  coaming  of  the 
dismantled  cat-boat,  raking  the  island  with  an  incredulous 
stare. 

"But  those  houses—  ?" 

"There's  no  one  in  any  of  them,  that  I  could  find."  She 
stirred  from  her  place  and  offered  him  a  hand.  "Please 
help  me  up." 

He  turned  eagerly,  with  a  feeling  of  chagrin  that  she  had 
needed  to  ask  him.  For  an  instant  he  had  both  her  hands, 
warm  and  womanly,  in  his  grasp,  while  she  rose  by  his  aid, 
and  for  an  instant  longer  —  possibly  by  way  of  reward. 
Then  she  disengaged  them  with  gentle  firmness. 

She  stood  beside  him  so  tall  and  fair,  so  serenely  invested 
with  the  flawless  dignity  of  her  womanhood  that  he  no  longer 
thought  of  the  incongruity  of  her  grotesque  garb. 

"You've  been  up  there?"  he  asked,  far  too  keenly  in 
terested  to  scorn  the  self-evident. 

She  gave  a  comprehensive  gesture,  embracing  the  visible 
prospect.  "All  over.  .  .  .  When  I  woke,  I  thought 
surely  ...  I  went  to  see,  found  nothing  living  except  the 


DISCLOSURES  223 

sheep  and  some  chickens  and  turkeys  in  the  farmyard. 
"Those  nearer  buildings  —  nothing  there  except  desolation, 
ruin,  and  the  smell  of  last  year's  fish.  I  think  fishermen 
camp  out  here  at  times.  And  the  farm-house  —  apparently 
it's  ordinarily  inhabited.  Evidently  the  people  have  gone 
away  for  a  visit  somewhere.  It  gives  the  impression  of  be 
ing  a  home  the  year  round.  There  isn't  any  boat  — 

"No  boat!" 

"Not  a  sign  of  one,  that  I  can  find  —  except  this  wreck." 
She  indicated  the  cat-boat. 

"But  we  can't  do  anything  with  this,"  he  expostulated. 

The  deep,  wide  break  in  its  side  placed  it  beyond  con 
sideration,  even  if  it  should  prove  possible  to  remedy  its 
many  other  lacks. 

"  No.  The  people  who  live  here  must  have  a  boat  —  I 
saw  a  mooring-buoy  out  there"  -with  a  gesture  toward 
the  water.  "Of  course.  How  else  could  they  get  away  ?" 

"The  question  is,  how  we  are  to  get  away,"  he  grumbled, 
morose. 

"You'll  find  the  way,"  she  told  him  with  quiet  confidence. 

"I!    I'll  find  the  way?    How?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  only  you  must.  There  must  be  some  way 
of  signalling  the  mainland,  some  means  of  communication. 
Surely  people  wouldn't  live  here,  cut  off  from  all  the 
world  .  .  .  Perhaps  we'll  find  something  in  the  farm-house 
to  tell  us  what  to  do.  I  didn't  have  much  time  to  look  round. 
I  wanted  clothing,  mostly  —  and  found  these  awful  things 
hanging  behind  the  kitchen  door.  And  then  I  wanted 
something  to  eat,  and  I  found  that  —  some  bread,  not  too 


224     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

stale,  and  plenty  of  eggs  in  the  hen-house.  .  .  .  And  you 
—  you  must  be  famished  ! " 

The  reminder  had  an  effect  singularly  distressing.  Till 
then  he  had  been  much  too  thunderstruck  by  comprehen 
sion  of  their  anomalous  plight  to  think  of  himself.  Now 
suddenly  he  was  stabbed  through  and  through  with  pangs 
of  desperate  hunger.  He  turned  a  little  faint,  was  seized 
with  a  slight  sensation  of  giddiness,  at  the  thought  of  food , 
so  that  he  was  glad  of  the  cat-boat  for  support. 

"Oh,  you  are!"  Compassion  thrilled  her  tone.  "I'm 
so  sorry.  Forgive  me  for  not  thinking  of  it  at  once. 
Come  —  if  you  can  walk."  She  caught  his  hand  as  if  to 
help  him  onward.  "  It's  not  far,  and  I  can  fix  you  something 
quickly.  Do  come." 

"Oh,  surely,"  he  assented,  recovering.  "I  am  half  starv 
ing  —  and  then  some.  Only  I  didn't  know  it  until  you 
mentioned  the  fact." 

The  girl  relinquished  his  hand,  but  they  were  almost  shoul 
der  to  shoulder  as  they  plodded  through  the  dry,  yielding 
sand  toward  firmer  ground. 

"We  can  build  a  fire  and  have  something  hot,"  she 
said;  "there's  plenty  of  fuel." 

"  But  —  what  did  you  do  ?  " 

"I  —  oh,  I  took  my  eggs  au  naturel  —  barring  some 
salt  and  pepper.  I  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  bother 
with  a  stove  — 

"Why  in  a  hurry?" 

She  made  no  answer  for  an  instant.  He  turned  to  look 
at  her,  wondering.  To  his  unutterable  astonishment  she 


DISCLOSURES  225 

not  only  failed  to  meet  his  glance,  but  tried  to  seem  uncon 
scious  of  it. 

The  admirable  ease  and  gracious  self-possession  which 
he  had  learned  to  associate  with  her  personality  as  inalien 
able  traits  were  altogether  gone,  just  then  —  obliterated 
by  a  singular,  exotic  attitude  of  constraint  and  diffidence,  of 
self-consciousness.  She  seemed  almost  to  shrink  from  his 
regard,  and  held  her  face  a  little  averted  from  him,  the 
full  lips  tense,  lashes  low  and  trembling  upon  her  cheeks. 

"I  was  .  .  .  afraid  to  leave  you,"  she  said  in  a  faltering 
voice,  under  the  spell  of  this  extraordinary  mood.  "I  was 
afraid  something  might  happen  to  you,  if  I  were  long  away." 

"  But  what  could  happen  to  me,  here  —  on  this  unin 
habited  island?" 

"I  don't  know  ...  It  was  silly  of  me,  of  course." 
With  an  evident  exertion  of  will  power  she  threw  off  this 
perplexing  mood  of  shyness,  and  became  more  like  herself, 
as  he  knew  her.  "Really,  I  presume,  it  was  mostly  that  I 
was  afraid  for  myself  —  frightened  of  the  loneliness,  fear 
ful  lest  it  be  made  more  lonely  for  me  by  some  accident  — 

"Of  course,"  he  assented,  puzzled  beyond  expression,  cud 
gelling  his  wits  for  some  solution  of  a  riddle  sealed  to  his  mas 
culine  obtuseness. 

What  could  have  happened  to  influence  her  so  strangely  ? 
Could  he  have  said  or  done  —  anything  —  ? 

The  problem  held  him  in  abstraction  throughout  the 
greater  part  of  their  walk  to  the  farm-house,  though  he 
heard  and  with  ostensible  intelligence  responded  to  her 
running  accompaniment  of  comment  and  suggestion.  .  .  . 


226     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

They  threaded  the  cluster  of  buildings  that,  their  useful 
ness  outlived,  still  encumbered  the  bluff  bordering  upon 
the  beach.  The  most  careless  and  superficial  glance  bore 
out  the  impression  conveyed  by  the  girl's  description  of 
the  spot.  Doorless  doorways  and  windows  with  shattered 
sashes  disclosed  glimpses  of  interiors  fallen  into  a  state  of 
ruin  defying  renovation.  What  remained  intact  of  walls 
and  roofs  were  mere  shells  half  filled  with  an  agglomer 
ation  of  worthlessness  —  mounds  of  crumbled,  mouldering 
plaster,  shards,  rust-eaten  tins,  broken  bottles,  shreds  of 
what  had  once  been  garments :  the  whole  perhaps  threat 
ened  by  the  overhanging  skeleton  of  a  crazy  staircase.  .  .  . 
An  evil,  disturbing  spot,  exhaling  an  atmosphere  more 
melancholy  and  disheartening  than  that  of  a  rain-sodden 
November  woodland :  a  haunted  place,  where  the  hand  of 
Time  had  wrought  devastation  with  the  w^anton  efficacy  of 
a  destructive  child  :  a  good  place  to  pass  through  quickly 
and  ever  thereafter  to  avoid. 

In  relief  against  it  the  uplands  seemed  the  brighter,  stretch 
ing  away  in  the  soft  golden  light  of  the  descending  sun.  The 
wind  sang  over  them  a  boisterous  song  of  strength  and  the 
sweep  of  open  spaces.  The  air  was  damp  and  soft  and  sweet 
with  the  scent  of  heather.  Straggling  sheep  suspended  for 
a  moment  their  meditative  cropping  and  lifted  their  heads  to 
watch  the  strangers  with  timorous,  stupid  eyes.  A  flock 
of  young  turkeys  fled  in  discordant  agitation  from  their 
path. 

Halfway  up  to  the  farm-house  a  memory  shot  through 
Whitaker's  mind  as  startling  as  lightning  streaking  athwart 


DISCLOSURES  227 

a  peaceful  evening  sky.  He  stopped  with  an  exclamation  that 
—brought  the  girl  beside  him  to  a  standstill  with  questioning 
eyes. 

"But  the  others —  !"  he  stammered. 

"The  others?"  she  repeated  blankly. 

"They  —  the  men  who  brought  you  here  —  ?" 

Her  lips  tightened.     She  moved  her  head  in  slow  negation. 

"I  have  seen  nothing  of  either  of  them." 

Horror  and  pity  filled  him,  conjuring  up  a  vision  of 
wild,  raving  waters,  mad  with  blood-lust,  and  in  their  jaws, 
arms  and  heads  helplessly  whirling  and  tossing. 

"Poor  devils  !"  he  muttered. 

She  said  nothing.  When  he  looked  for  sympathy  in  her 
face,  he  found  it  set  and  inscrutable. 

He  delayed  another  moment,  thinking  that  soon  she  must 
speak,  offer  him  some  sort  of  explanation.  But  she  remained 
uncommunicative.  And  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  seem 
anxious  to  pry  into  her  affairs. 

He  took  a  tentative  step  onward.  She  responded  in 
stantly  to  the  suggestion,  but  in  silence. 

The  farm-house  stood  on  high  ground,  commanding  an 
uninterrupted  sweep  of  the  horizon.  As  they  drew  near  it, 
Whitaker  paused  and  turned,  narrowing  his  eyes  as  he  at 
tempted  to  read  the  riddle  of  the  enigmatic,  amber-tinted 
distances. 

To  north  and  east  the  island  fell  away  in  irregular  ter 
races  to  wide,  crescent  beaches  whose  horns,  joining  in  the 
northeast,  formed  the  sandy  spit.  To  west  and  south  the 
moorlands  billowed  up  to  the  brink  of  a  precipitous  bluff. 


228     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

In  the  west,  Whitaker  noted  absently,  a  great  congregation 
of  gulls  were  milling  amid  a  cacophony  of  screams,  just  be 
yond  the  declivity.  Far  over  the  northern  water  the  dark 
promontory  was  blending  into  violet  shadows  which,  in  turn, 
blended  imperceptibly  with  the  more  sombre  shade  of  the 
sea.  Beyond  it  nothing  was  discernable.  Southeast  from 
it  the  coast,  backed  by  dusky  highlands,  ran  on  for  several 
miles  to  another,  but  less  impressive,  headland ;  its  line,  at 
an  angle  to  that  of  the  deserted  island,  forming  a  funnel- 
like  tideway  for  the  intervening  waters  fully  six  miles  at 
its  broadest  in  the  north,  narrowing  in  the  east  to  something 
over  three  miles. 

There  was  not  a  sail  visible  in  all  the  blue  cup  of  the  sea. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Whitaker  slowly,  as  much  to  him 
self  as  to  his  companion.  "It's  odd  .  .  .  it  passes  me  .  .  ." 

"Can't   you  tell  where  we  are?"  she  inquired  anxiously. 

"  Not  definitely.  I  know,  of  course,  we  must  be  somewhere 
off  the  south  coast  of  New  England :  somewhere  between 
Cape  Cod  and  Block  Island.  But  I've  never  sailed  up  this 
way  —  never  east  of  Orient  Point ;  my  boating  has  been 
altogether  confined  to  Long  Island  Sound.  .  .  .  And  my 
geographical  memory  is  as  hazy  as  the  day.  There  are 
islands  off  the  south  coast  of  Massachusetts  —  a  number 
of  them :  Nantucket,  you  know,  and  Martha's  Vineyard. 
This  might  be  either  —  only  it  isn't,  because  they're  sum 
mer  resorts.  That  "  —  he  swept  his  hand  toward  the  land 
in  the  northeast  —  "  might  be  either,  and  probably  is  one  of 
'em.  At  the  same  time,  it  may  be  the  mainland.  I  don't 
know." 


DISCLOSURES  229 

"Then  .  .  .  then  what  are  we  to  do?" 

"I  should  say,  possess  our  souls  in  patience,  since  we 
have  no  boat.  At  least,  until  we  can  signal  some  passing 
vessel.  There  aren't  any  in  sight  just  now,  but  there  must 
be  some  —  many  —  in  decent  weather." 

'•How  — signal?" 

He  looked  round,  shaking  a  dubious  head.  "Of  course 
there's  nothing  like  a  flagpole  here  —  but  me,  and  I'm  not 
quite  long  enough.  Perhaps  I  can  find  something  to  serve 
as  well.  We  might  nail  a  plank  to  the  corner  of  the  roof 
and  a  table-cloth  to  that,  I  suppose." 

"  And  build  fires,  by  night  ?  " 

He  nodded.  "Best  suggestion  yet.  I'll  do  that  very 
thing  to-night  —  after  I've  had  a  bite  to  eat." 

She  started  impatiently  away.  "  Oh,  come,  come  !  What 
am  I  thinking  of,  to  let  you  stand  there,  starving  by 
inches  ?  " 

They  entered  the  house  by  the  back  door,  finding  them 
selves  in  the  kitchen  —  that  mean  and  commonplace  assem 
bly-room  of  narrow  and  pinched  lives.  The  immaculate 
cleanliness  of  decent,  close  poverty  lay  oVer  it  all  like  a 
blight.  And  despite  the  warmth  of  the  air  outside,  within 
it  was  chill  —  bleak  with  an  aura  of  discontent  bred  of 
the  incessant  struggle  against  crushing  odds  which  went  on 
within  those  walls  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  .  .  . 

Whitaker  busied  himself  immediately  with  the  stove.  There 
was  a  full  wood-box  near  by ;  and  within  a  very  few  minutes 
he  had  a  brisk  fire  going.  The  woman  had  disappeared  in 
the  direction  of  the  barn.  She  returned  in  good  time  with 


230     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

half  a  dozen  eggs.  Foraging  in  the  pantry  and  cupboards, 
she  brought  to  light  a  quantity  of  supplies:  a  side  of 
bacon,  3our,  potatoes,  sugar,  tea,  small  stores  of  edibles 
in  tins. 

"  I'm  hungry  again,  myself,"  she  declared,  attacking  the 
problem  of  simple  cookery  with  a  will  and  a  confident 
air  that  promised  much. 

The  aroma  of  frying  bacon,  the  steam  of  brewing  tea, 
were  all  but  intolerable  to  an  empty  stomach.  Whitaker 
left  the  kitchen  hurriedly  and,  in  an  endeavour  to  control 
himself,  made  a  round  of  the  other  rooms.  There  were  two 
others  on  the  ground  floor :  a  "  parlour,"  a  bedroom ;  in 
the  upper  story,  four  small  bedchambers;  above  them  an 
attic,  gloomy  and  echoing.  Nowhere  did  he  discover  any 
thing  to  moderate  the  impression  made  by  the  kitchen: 
it  was  all  impeccably  neat,  desperately  bare. 

Depressed,  he  turned  toward  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
Below  a  door  whined  on  its  hinges,  and  the  woman  called 
him,  her  voice  ringing  through  the  hallway  with  an  effect 
of  richness,  deep-toned  and  bell-true,  that  somehow  made  him 
think  of  sunlight  flinging  an  arm  of  gold  athwart  the  dusk 
of  a  darkened  room.  He  felt  his  being  thrill  responsive 
to  it,  as  fine  glass  sings  its  answer  to  the  note  truly  pitched. 
More  than  all  this,  he  was  staggered  by  something  in  the 
quality  of  that  full-throated  cry,  something  that  smote  his 
memory  until  it  was  quick  and  vibrant,  like  a  harp  swept 
by  an  old  familiar  hand. 

"Hugh?"  she  called;  and  again:  "Hugh!  Where 
are  you?" 


DISCLOSURES 

He  paused,  grasping  the  balustrade,  and  with  some  diffi 
culty  managed  to  articulate : 

"Here  .  .  .  coming  .  .  ." 

"Hurry.     Everything's  ready." 

Waiting  an  instant  to  steady  his  nerves,  he  descended  and 
reentered  the  kitchen. 

The  meal  was  waiting  —  on  the  table.  The  woman,  too, 
faced  him  as  he  entered,  waiting  in  the  chair  nearest 
the  stove.  But,  once  within  the  room,  he  paused  so  long 
beside  the  door,  his  hand  upon  the  knob,  and  stared  so 
strangely  at  her,  that  she  moved  uneasily,  grew  restless 
and  disturbed.  A  gleam  of  apprehension  flickered  in  her 
eyes. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  she  asked  with  forced  light 
ness.  "Why  don't  you  come  in  and  sit  down?" 

He  said  abruptly  :  "  You  called  me  Hugh  ! " 

She  inclined  her  head,  smiling  mischievously.  "I  ad 
mit  it.  Do  you  mind?" 

"  Mind  ?  No  !"  He  shut  the  door,  advanced  and  dropped 
into  his  chair,  still  searching  her  face  with  his  troubled  gaze. 
"Only,"  he  said  —  "you  startled  me.  I  didn't  think  — 
expect  —  hope  — 

"On  so   short  an*  acquaintance ?"    she  suggested  archly. 
"Perhaps  you're  right.     I  didn't  think ..  .  .     And  yet  — 
I  do  think  —  with  the  man  who  risked  his  life  for  me  —  I'm 
a  little  justified  in  forgetting  even  that  we've  never  met 
through  the  medium  of  a  conventional  introduction." 

"It  isn't  that,  but  ..."  He  hesitated,  trying  to  formu 
late  phrases  to  explain  the  singular  sensation  that  had 


232     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

assailed  him  when  she  called  him :  a  sensation  the  precise 
nature  of  which  he  himself  did  not  as  yet  understand. 

She  interrupted  brusquely :  "  Don't  let's  waste  time  talk 
ing.  I  can't  wait  another  instant." 

Silently  submissive,  he  took  up  his  knife  and  fork  and 
fell  to. 


XVI 

THE   BEACON 

THROUGH  the  meal,  neither  spoke ;  and  if  there  were  any 
serious  thinking  in  process,  Whitaker  was  not  only  ignorant 
of  it,  but  innocent  of  participation  therein.  With  the  first 
taste  of  food,  he  passed  into  a  state  of  abject  surrender  to 
sheer  brutish  hunger.  It  was  not  easily  that  he  restrained 
himself,  schooled  his  desires  to  decent  expression.  The 
smell,  the  taste,  the  sight  of  food :  he  fairly  quivered  like  a 
ravenous  animal  under  the  influence  of  their  sensual  prom 
ise.  He  was  sensible  of  a  dull,  carking  shame,  and  yet  was 
shameless. 

The  girl  was  the  first  to  finish.  She  had  eaten  little  in 
comparison ;  chiefly,  perhaps,  because  she  required  less  than 
he.  Putting  aside  her  knife  and  fork,  she  rested  her  elbows 
easily  on  the  table,  cradled  her  chin  between  her  half-closed 
hands.  Her  eyes  grew  dark  with  speculation,  and  oddly 
lambent.  He  ate  on,  unconscious  of  her  attitude.  When 
he  had  finished,  it  was  as  if  a  swarm  of  locusts  had  passed 
that  way.  Of  the  more  than  plentiful  meal  she  had  prepared; 
there  remained  but  a  beggarly  array  of  empty  dishes  to 
testify  to  his  appreciation. 

He  leaned  back  a  little  in  his  chair,  surprised  her  intent 
gaze,  laughed  sheepishly,  and  laughing,  sighed  with  repletion. 

A  smile  of  sympathetic  understanding  darkened  the  cor 
ners  of  her  lips. 

233 


"Milord  is  satisfied?" 

"Milord,"  he  said  with  an  apologetic  laugh,  "is  on  the 
point  of  passing  into  a  state  of  torpor.  He  begins  to  under 
stand  the  inclination  of  the  boa-constrictor  —  or  what 
ever  beast  it  is  that  feeds  once  every  six  months  —  to  torp 
a  little,  gently,  after  its  semi-annual  gorge.'' 

"Then  there's  nothing  else  .  .   .?" 

"  For  a  pipe  and  tobacco  I  would  give  you  hah*  my  king 
dom!" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!" 

"Don't  be.  It  won't  harm  me  to  do  without  nicotine 
far  a  day  or  two."  But  his  sigh  belied  the  statement.  "Any 
way,  I'll  forget  all  about  it  presently.  I'll  be  too  busy." 

"How?" 

"It's  coming  on  night.  You  haven't  forgotten  our 
signal  fires?" 

"Oh,  no  —  and  we  must  not  forget ! " 

"Then  I've  got  my  work  cut  out  for  me,  to  forage  for  fuel. 
I  must  get  right  at  it." 

The  girl  rose  quickly.  "Do  you  mind  waiting  a  little? 
I  mustn't  neglect  my  dishes,  and  —  if  you  don't  mind  —  I'd 
rather  not  be  left  alone  any  longer  than  necessary.  You 
know  .  .  ." 

She  ended  with  a  nervous  laugh,  depreciatory. 

"Why,  surely.     And  I'll  help  with  the  dish-cloth." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I'd  rather  do  it  all  my 
self.  Please."  She  waved  him  back  to  his  chair  with  a 
commanding  gesture.  "  I  mean  it  —  really." 

"Well,"  he  consented,  doubtful,  "if  you  insist  .  .  ." 


THEBEACON  235 

She  worked  rapidly  above  the  steaming  dish-pan,  heedless 
-of  the  effects  upon  her  hands  and  bared  arms  :  busy  and  in 
tent  upon  her  business,  the  fair  head  bowed,  the  cheeks 
faintly  flushed. 

Whitaker  lounged,  profoundly  intrigued,  watching  her 
with  sober  and  studious  eyes,  asking  himself  questions  he 
found  for  the  present  unanswerable.  What  did  she  mean  to 
him  ?  Was  what  he  had  been  at  first  disposed  to  consider 
a  mere,  light-hearted,  fugitive  infatuation,  developing  into 
something  else,  something  stronger  and  more  enduring? 
And  what  did  it  mean,  this  impression  that  had  come  to  him 
so  suddenly,  within  the  hour,  and  that  persisted  with  so 
much  force  in  the  face  of  its  manifest  impossibility,  that  he 
had  known  her,  or  some  one  strangely  like  her,  at  some 
forgotten  time  —  as  in  some  previous  existence  ? 

It  was  her  voice  that  had  made  him  think  that,  her  voice 
of  marvellous  allure,  crystal-pure,  as  flexible  as  tempered 
steel,  strong,  tender,  rich,  compassionate,  compelling.  .  .  . 
Where  had  he  heard  it  before,  and  when  ? 

And  who  was  she,  this  Miss  Fiske  ?  This  self-reliant  and 
self-sufficient  woman  who  chose  to  spend  her  summer  in 
seclusion,  with  none  but  servants  for  companions ;  wrho  had 
comprehension  of  machinery  and  ran  her  motor-boat  alone ; 
who  went  for  lonely  swims  in  the  surf  at  dawn  ;  who  treated 
men  as  her  peers  —  neither  more  nor  less ;  who  was  spied 
upon,  shadowed,  attacked,  kidnapped  by  men  of  unparalleled 
desperation  and  daring;  who  had  retained  her  self-posses 
sion  under  stress  of  circumstance  that  would  have  driven 
strong  men  into  pseudo-hysteria;  who  now  found  herself 


236     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

in  a  position  to  the  last  degree  ambiguous  and  anomalous, 
cooped  up,  for  God  only  knew  how  long,  upon  a  lonely 
hand's-breadth  of  land  in  company  with  a  man  of  whom 
she  knew  little  more  than  nothing ;  and  who  accepted  it  all 
without  protest,  with  a  serene  and  flawless  courage,  uncom 
plaining,  displaying  an  implicit  and  unquestioning  faith  in 
her  companion :  what  manner  of  woman  was  this  ? 

At  least  one  to  marvel  over  and  admire  without  reserve ;  to 
rejoice  in  and,  if  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  to  desire  in  si 
lence  and  in  pride  that  it  should  be  given  to  one  so  unworthy 
the  privileges  of  desiring  and  of  service  and  mute  adora 
tion.  .  .  . 

"It's  almost  dark,"  her  pleasant  accents  broke  in  upon 
his  revery.  "Would  you  mind  lighting  the  lamp?  My 
hands  are  all  wet  and  sticky." 

"Assuredly." 

Whitaker  got  up,  found  matches,  and  lighted  a  tin  kero 
sene  lamp  in  a  bracket  on  the  wall.  The  windows  dark 
ened  and  the  walls  took  on  a  sombre  yellow  as  the  flame  grew 
strong  and  steady. 

"I'm  quite  finished."  The  girl  scrubbed  her  arms  and 
hands  briskly  with  a  dry  towel  and  turned  down  her  sleeves, 
facing  him  with  her  fine,  frank,  friendly  smile.  "  If  you're 
ready  .  .  ." 

"Whenever  you  are,"  he  said  with  an  oddly  ceremoni 
ous  bow. 

To  his  surprise  she  drew  back,  her  brows  and  lips  con 
tracting  to  level  lines,  her  eyes  informed  with  the  light  of 
wonder  shot  through  with  the  flashings  of  a  resentful  temper. 


THE     BEACON  237 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  so?"  she  demanded  sharply. 
"What  are  you  thinking  .  .  .  ?"  She  checked,  her  frown 
relaxed,  her  smile  flickered  softly.  "  Am  I  such  a  fright  —  ?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  hastily.  "I  was  merely 
thinking,  wondering  ..." 

She  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  said  nothing.  He  did 
not  round  out  his  apology.  A  little  distance  apart,  they 
stood  staring  at  one  another  in  that  weird,  unnatural 
light,  wherein  the  glow  from  the  lamp  contended  garishly 
with  the  ebbing  flush  of  day.  And  again  he  was  mute  in 
bewildered  inquiry  before  that  puzzling  phenomenon  of  in 
scrutable  emotion  wrhich  once  before,  since  his  awakening, 
had  been  disclosed  to  him  in  her  mantling  colour,  in  the 
quickening  of  her  breath,  and  the  agitation  of  her  bosom, 
in  the  timid,  dumb  questioning  of  eyes  grown  strangely 
shy  and  frightened. 

And  then,  in  a  twinkling,  an  impatient  gesture  exorcised 
the  inexplicable  mood  that  had  possessed  her,  and  she  re 
gained  her  normal,  self-reliant  poise  as  if  by  witchcraft. 

"What  a  quaint  creature  you  are,  Hugh,"  she  cried,  her 
smile  whimsical.  "You've  a  way  of  looking  at  one  that 
gives  me  the  creeps.  I  see  things  —  things  that  aren't  so, 
and  never  were.  If  you  don't  stop  it,  I  swear  I  shall  think 
you're  the  devil !  Stop  it  —  do  you  hear  me,  sir  ?  And 
come  build  our  bonfire." 

She  swung  lithely  away  and  was  out  of  the  house  before 
he  could  regain  his  wits  and  follow. 

"I  noticed  a  lot  of  old  lumber  around  the  barn,"  she 
announced,  when  he  joined  her  in  the  dooryard  —  "old  boxes 


238     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

and  barrels  and  rubbish.  And  a  wheelbarrow.  So  you 
won't  have  far  to  go  for  fuel.  Now  where  do  you  purpose 
building  the  beacon?" 

He  cast  round,  peering  through  the  thickening  shades  of 
dusk,  and  eventually  settled  upon  a  little  knoll  a  moderate 
distance  to  leeward  of  the  farm-house.  Such  a  location 
would  be  safest,  even  though  the  wind  was  falling  steadily 
with  the  flight  of  the  hours;  and  the  fire  would  be  con 
spicuously  placed  for  observation  from  any  point  in  the 
north  and  east. 

Off  in  the  north,  where  Whitaker  had  marked  down  the 
empurpled  headland  during  the  afternoon,  a  white  light 
lanced  the  gloom  thrice  with  a  sweeping  blade,  vanished, 
and  was  replaced  by  a  glare  of  angry  red,  which  in  its  turn 
winked  out. 

Whitaker  watched  it  briefly  with  the  finger-tips  of  his 
right  hand  resting  lightly  on  the  pulse  in  his  left  wrist. 
Then  turning  away,  he  announced : 

"Three  white  flashes  followed  by  a  red  at  intervals  of 
about  ten  seconds.  Wonder  what  that  stands  for  !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  the  girl  asked.     "  A  ship  signalling  ?  " 

"  No  ;  a  lighthouse  —  probably  a  first-order  light  —  with 
its  characteristic  flash,  not  duplicated  anywhere  along  this 
section  of  the  Atlantic  coast.  If  I  knew  anything  of  such 
matters,  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  tell  from  that  just  about 
where  we  are.  If  that  information  would  help  us." 

"But,  if  we  can  see  their  light,  they'll  see  ours, — won't 
they?  —  and  send  to  find  out  what's  the  matter." 

"  Perhaps.    At    least  —  let's    hope    so.    They're    pretty 


THE    BEACON  239 

sure  to  see  it,  but  as  to  their  attaching  sufficient  impor 
tance  to  it  to  investigate — that's  a  question.  They  may 
not  know  that  the  people  who  live  here  are  away.  They 
may  think  the  natives  here  are  merely  celebrating  their 
silver  wedding,  or  Roosevelt's  refusal  of  a  third  term,  or  the 
accession  of  Edward  the  Seventh  —  or  anything." 

"  Please  don't  be  silly  —  and  discouraging.  Do  get  to 
work  and  build  the  fire." 

He  obeyed  with  humility  and  expedition. 

As  she  had  said,  there  was  no  lack  of  fodder  for  the 
flames.  By  dint  of  several  wheelbarrow  trips  between  the 
knoll  and  the  farmyard,  he  had  presently  constructed  a  pyre 
of  impressive  proportions ;  and  by  that  time  it  was  quite  dark 
—  so  dark,  indeed,  that  he  had  been  forced  to  hunt  up  a 
yard  lantern,  carrying  the  which  the  girl  had  accompanied 
him  on  his  two  final  trips. 

"Here,"  he  said  clumsily,  when  all  was  ready,  offering 
her  matches.  "You  light  it,  please — for  luck." 

Their  fingers  touched  as  she  took  the  matches.  Some 
thing  thumped  in  his  breast,  and  a  door  opened  in  the  cham 
bers  of  his  understanding,  letting  in  light. 

Kneeling  at  the  base  of  the  pyre,  she  struck  a  match  and 
applied  it  to  a  quantity  of  tinder-dry  excelsior.  The  stuff 
caught  instantly,  puffing  into  a  brilliant  patch  of  blaze ; 
she  rose  and  stood  back,  en  silhouette,  delicately  poised  at 
attention,  waiting  to  see  that  her  work  was  well  done.  He 
could  not  take  his  gaze  from  her. 

So  what  he  had  trifled  and  toyed  with,  fought  with  and 
prayed  against,  doubted  and  questioned,  laughed  at  and 


240     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

cried  down,  was  sober,  painful  fact.  Truth,  heart-rending 
to  behold  in  her  stark,  shining  beauty,  had  been  revealed 
to  him  in  that  moment  of  brushing  finger-tips,  and  he  had 
looked  in  her  face  and  known  his  unworthiness ;  and  he 
trembled  and  was  afraid  and  ashamed.  .  .  . 

Spreading  swiftly  near  the  ground,  the  flames  mounted  as 
quickly,  with  snappings  and  cracklings,  excavating  in  the 
darkness  an  arena  of  reddish  radiance. 

The  girl  retreated  to  his  side,  returning  the  matches. 

A  tongue  of  flame  shot  up  from  the  peak  of  the  pyre,  and 
a  column  of  smoke  surpassed  it,  swinging  off  to  leeward  in 
great,  red-bosomed  volutes  and  whorls  picked  out  with 
flying  regiments  of  sparks. 

"You'd  think  they  couldn't  help  understanding  that  it's 
a  signal  of  distress." 

"  You  would  think  so.     I  hope  so.     God  knows  I  hope  so  ! " 

There  was  a  passion  in  his  tones  to  make  her  lift  wonder 
ing  eyes  to  his. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  —  that  way  ?  We  should  be 
thankful  to  be  safe  —  alive.  And  we're  certain  to  get  away 
before  long." 

"  I  know  —  yes,  I  know." 

"But  you  spoke  so  strangely!" 

"I'm  sorry.  I'd  been  thinking  clearly;  for  the  first 
time,  I  believe,  since  I  woke  up." 

"  About  what  ?     Us  ?    Or  merely  me  ?  " 

"You.  I  was  considering  you  alone.  It  isn't  right  that 
you  should  be  in  this  fix.  I'd  give  my  right  hand  to  remedy 
it!" 


THE     BEACON  241 

"But  I'm  not  distressed.  It  isn't  altogether  pleasant, 
but  it  can't  be  helped  and  might  easily  have  been  worse." 

"And  still  I  can't  help  feeling,  somehow,  the  wretched 
injustice  of  it  to  you.  I  want  to  protest  —  to  do  some 
thing  to  mend  matters." 

"But  since  you  can't"  —she  laughed  in  light  mockery, 
innocent  of  malice  —  "  since  we're  doing  our  best,  let's  be 
philosophical  and  sit  down  over  there  and  watch  to  see  if 
there's  any  answer  to  our  signal." 

"There  won't  be." 

"  You  are  a  difficult  body.  Never  mind.  Come  along  ! " 
she  insisted  with  pretty  imperiousness. 

They  seated  themselves  with  their  backs  to  the  fire  and  at 
a  respectful  distance  from  it,  where  they  could  watch  the 
jetting  blades  of  light  that  ringed  the  far-off  headland. 
Whitaker  reclined  on  an  elbow,  relapsing  into  moody  con 
templation.  The  girl  drew  up  her  knees,  clasped  her  arms 
about  them,  and  stared  thoughtfully  into  the  night. 

Behind  them  the  fire  flamed  and  roared,  volcanic.  All 
round  it  in  a  radius  of  many  yards  the  earth  glowed  red, 
while,  to  one  side,  the  grim,  homely  facade  of  the  farm 
house  edged  blushing  out  of  the  ambient  night,  all  its  staring 
windows  bloodshot  and  sinister. 

The  girl  stirred  uneasily,  turning  her  head  to  look  at 
Whitaker. 

"  You  know,"  she  said  with  a  confused  attempt  to  laugh : 
"this  is  really  no  canny,  this  place.  Or  else  I'm  balmy. 
I'm  seeing  things  —  shapes  that  stir  against  the  blackness, 
off  there  beyond  the  light,  moving,  halting,  staring,  hating 


242     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

us  for  butchering  their  age-old  peace  and  quiet.  Maybe  I'll 
forget  to  see  them,  if  you'll  talk  to  me  a  little." 

"I  can't  talk  to  you,"  he  said,  ungracious  in  his  distress. 

"You  can't?  It's  the  first  time  it's  been  noticeable, 
then.  What's  responsible  for  this  all-of-a-sudden  change 
of  heart?" 

"That's  what's  responsible."  The  words  spoke  them 
selves  almost  against  his  will. 

"What  —  change  of  heart ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"You're  very  obscure.  Am  I  to  understand  that  you've 
taken  a  sudden  dislike  to  me,  so  that  you  can't  treat  me  with 
decent  civility?" 

"You  know  that  isn't  so." 

"Surely"  —she  caught  her  breath  sharply,  paused  for 
an  instant,  then  went  on  —  "surely  you  don't  mean  the 
converse  !  " 

"I've  always  understood  women  knew  what  men  meant 
before  the  men  did,  themselves."  His  voice  broke  a  little. 
"Oh,  can't  you  see  how  it  is  with  me?  Can't  you  see?" 
he  cried.  "  God  forgive  me  !  I  never  meant  to  inflict  this 
on  you,  at  such  a  time  !  I  don't  know  why  I  have  ..." 

"You  mean,"  she  stammered  in  a  voice  of  amaze  —  "you 
mean  —  love?" 

"Can  you  doubt  it?" 

"No  .  .  .  not  after  what's  happened,  I  presume.  You 
wouldn't  have  followed  —  you  wouldn't  have  fought  so  to 
save  me  from  drowning  —  I  suppose  —  if  you  hadn't  — 
cared.  .  But  I  didn't  know." 


THE    BEACON  243 

She  sighed,  a  sigh  plaintive  and  perturbed,  then  resumed : 
"A  woman  never  knows,  really.  She  may  suspect;  in  fact, 
she  almost  always  does ;  she  is  obliged  to  be  so  continually 
on  guard  that  suspicion  is  ingrained  in  her  nature ;  but  ..." 

"Then  you're  not  —  offended  ?"  he  asked,  sitting  up. 

"Why  should  I  be?"  The  firelight  momentarily  outlined 
the  smiling,  half  wistful  countenance  she  turned  to  him. 

"But"  —he  exploded  with  righteous  wrath,  self- 
centred  — "  only  a  scoundrel  would  force  his  attentions 
upon  a  woman,  in  such  circumstances  !  You  can't  get  away 
from  me  —  I  may  be  utterly  hateful  to  you  — 

"Oh,  you're  not."  She  laughed  quietly.  "You're  not; 
nor  am  I  distressed  —  because  of  the  circumstances  that 
distress  you,  at  least.  What  woman  would  be  who  received 
as  great  and  honourable  a  compliment  —  from  you,  Hugh  ? 
Only"  —again  the  whimsical  little  laugh  that  merged  into 
a  smothered  sigh  —  "I  wish  I  knew!" 

"Wish  you  knew  what?" 

"What's  going  on  inside  that  extraordinary  head  of 
yours:  what's  in  the  mind  behind  the  eyes  that  I  so  often 
find  staring  at  me  so  curiously." 

He  bowed  that  head  between  hands  that  compressed 
cruelly  his  temples.  "  I  wish  /  knew  ! "  he  groaned  in  pro 
test.  "It's  a  mystery  to  me,  the  spell  you've  laid  upon 
my  thoughts.  Ever  since  we  met  you've  haunted  me  with 
a  weird  suggestion  of  some  elusive  relationship,  some  en 
tanglement  —  intimacy  —  gone,  perished,  forgotten  .  .  . 
But  since  you  called  me  to  supper,  a  while  ago,  by  name  — 
I  don't  know  why  —  your  voice,  as  you  used  it  then,  has 


244     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

run  through  my  head  and  through,  teasing  my  memory 
like  a  strain  of  music  from  some  half-remembered  song.  It 
half-maddens  me ;  I  feel  so  strongly  that  everything  would 
be  so  straight  and  plain  and  clear  between  us,  if  I  could 
only  fasten  upon  that  fugitive,  indefinable  something  that's 
always  fluttering  just  beyond  my  grasp  !" 

"  You  mean  all  that  —  honestly  ?  "  she  demanded  in  an 
oddly  startled  voice. 

"Most  honestly."  He  looked  up  in  excitement.  "You 
don't  mean  you've  felt  anything  of  the  sort?" 

"No,  I"  -her  voice  broke  as  if  with  weariness—-"! 
don't  mean  that,  precisely.  I  mean  .  .  .  Probably  I  don't 
know  what  I  do  mean.  I'm  really  very  tired,  too  tired  to 
go  on,  just  now  —  to  sit  here  with  you,  badgering  our  poor 
wits  with  esoteric  subtleties.  I  think  —  do  you  mind  ?  — 
I'd  better  go  in." 

She  rose  quickly,  without  waiting  for  his  hand.  Whitaker 
straightened  out  his  long  body  with  more  deliberation,  stand 
ing  finally  at  full  height,  his  grave  and  moody  countenance 
strongly  relieved  in  the  ruddy  glow,  while  her  face  was  all  in 
shadow. 

"One  moment,"  he  begged  humbly  —  "before  we  go  ir>. 
I  ...  I've  something  else  to  say  to  you,  if  I  may." 

She  waited,  seriously  attentive. 

"I  haven't  played  fair,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  lowering  his 
head  to  escape  her  steadfast  gaze.  "  I've  just  told  you  that 
I  love  you,  but  .  .  ." 

"Well?"  she  demanded  in  an  odd,  ringing  voice.  "Isn't 
it  true?" 


THE     BEACON  245 

"True?"     He  laughed  unnaturally.     "It's  so  true  I- 
wish  I  had  died  before  I  told  you  !" 

"Why?" 

"Because  .  .  .  because  you  didn't  resent  my  telling 
you  .  .  ." 

It  seemed  impossible  for  him  to  speak  connectedly  or  at 
any  length,  impossible  to  overcome  his  distaste  for  the  hate 
ful  confession  he  must  make.  And  she  was  intolerably  pa 
tient  with  him ;  he  resented  her  quiet,  contained  patience ; 
while  he  feared,  yet  he  was  relieved  when  she  at  length 
insisted:  "Well?" 

"Since  you  didn't  resent  that  confession,  I  am  led  to  be 
lieve  you  don't  —  exactly  —  dislike  me.  That  makes  it 
just  so  much  the  harder  to  forfeit  your  regard." 

"But  must  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Please  explain,"  she  urged,  a  trace  wearily. 

"  I  who  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  mind  and  soul  — 
I  am  not  free  to  love  you." 

"You  aren't  free  —  !" 

"I  ...    No." 

After  several  moments,  during  which  he  fought  vainly 
with  his  inability  to  go  on,  she  resumed  her  examination  with 
a  manner  aloof  and  yet  determined  : 

"You've  told  me  so  much,  I  think  you  can  hardly  refuse 
to  tell  more." 

"I,"  he  stammered  —  "I  am  already  married." 

She  gave  a  little,  stifled  cry  —  whether  of  pain  or  horror 
or  of  indignation  he  could  not  tell. 


246     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  I'm  sorry  —  I  —   "he  began. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  might  have  thought  of  this  before  ?  " 

"I  ...  you  don't  understand  —  " 

"Are  you  in  the  habit  of  declaring  yourself  first  and  con 
fessing  later  ?  .  .  .  Don't  answer,  if  you  don't  want  to. 
I've  no  real  right  to  know.  I  asked  out  of  simple  curiosity." 

"  If  you'd  only  listen  to  me  ! "  he  broke  out  suddenly. 
"  The  thing's  so  strange,  so  far  off  —  dreamlike  —  that  '. 
forget  it  easily." 

"So  it  would  seem,"  she  put  in  cruelly. 

"Please  hear  me  !" 

"Surely  you  must  see  I  am  listening,  Mr.  Whitaker." 

"  It  was  several  years  ago  —  nearly  seven.  I  was  on  the 
point  of  death  —  had  been  told  to  expect  death  within  a  few 
months.  ...  In  a  moment  of  sentimental  sympathy  — 
I  wasn't  at  all  myself  —  I  married  a  girl  I'd  never  seen  be 
fore,  to  help  her  out  of  a  desperate  scrape  she'd  got  into  — 
meaning  simply  to  give  her  the  protection  of  my  name.  She 
was  in  bad  trouble  .  .  .  We  never  lived  together,  never 
even  saw  one  another  after  that  hour.  She  had  every  reason 
to  think  me  dead  —  as  I  should  have  been,  by  rights.  But 
now  she  knows  that  I'm  alive  —  is  about  to  sue  for  a  divorce. 
.  .  .  Now  you  know  just  what  sort  of  a  contemptible 
hound  I  am,  and  why  it  was  so  hard  to  tell  you." 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  neither  stirred,  she  told 
him,  in  a  faint  voice  :  "Thank  you." 

She  moved  toward  the  house. 

"  I  throw  myself  upon  your  mercy  —  " 

"  Do  you  ?  "  she  said  coolly,  pausing. 


THE    BEACON  247 

"  If  you  will  forgive  me  — 

.  "  Oh,  I  forgive  you,  Mr.  Whitaker.     My  heart  is  really  not 
quite  so  fragile  as  all  this  implies." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that  —  you  know  I  didn't.  I'm  only  try 
ing  to  assure  you  that  I  won't  bother  you  —  with  this  trouble 
of  mine  —  again.  I  don't  want  you  to  be  afraid  of  me." 

"I  am  not." 

The  words  were  terse  and  brusque  enough ;  the  accompany 
ing  swift  gesture,  in  which  her  hand  rested  momentarily  on 
his  arm  as  if  in  confidence  approaching  affection,  he  found 
oddly  contradictory. 

"You  don't  see  —  anything?"  she  said  with  an  abrupt 
change  of  manner,  swinging  to  the  north. 

He  shaded  his  eyes,  peering  intently  through  the  night, 
closely  sweeping  its  encompassing  obscurity  from  northwest 
to  southeast. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said,  dropping  his  hand.  "  If  there  were  a 
boat  heading  this  way,  we  couldn't  help  seeing  her  lights." 

"Then  there's  no  use  waiting  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  They'd  hardly  come  to-night,  anyway; 
more  likely  by  daylight,  if  they  should  happen  to  grow 
suspicious  of  our  beacon." 

"Then  I  think  I'll  go  to  bed.  I'm  very,  very  tired,  in 
spite  of  my  sleep  on  the  sands.  That  didn't  rest  me,  really." 

"Of  course." 

"And  you  —  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Why  —  keep  the  fire  going,  I  presume." 


248     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  Is  it  necessary,  do  you  think  ?    Or  even  worth  while  ? " 

He  made  a  doubtful  gesture. 

"I  wish,"  she  continued—  "I  wish  you'd  stay  in  the  house 
I  —  I'm  really  a  bit  timid :  unnerved,  I  presume.  It's 
been,  you  know,  rather  a  harrowing  experience.  Anything 
might  happen  in  a  place  like  this  ..." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  he  agreed,  something  constrained.  "I'd 
feel  more  content,  myself,  to  know  I  was  within  call  if  any 
thing  should  alarm  you." 

They  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

In  silence,  while  Whitaker  fidgeted  about  the  room,  awk 
ward  and  unhappy,  the  girl  removed  a  glass  lamp  from  the 
shelf  above  the  sink,  assured  herself  that  it  was  filled,  and 
lighted  it.  Then,  over  her  shoulder  : 

"I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  stay  up  all  night." 

"I  —  well,  I'm  really  not  sleepy." 

"Oh,  but  you  are,"  she  contradicted  calmly. 

"  Honestly ;  I  slept  so  long  down  there  on  the  beach  — 

"Please  don't  try  to  deceive  me.  I  know  that  slumbers 
like  those  —  of  exhaustion  —  don't  rest  one  as  they  should. 
Besides,  you  show  how  tired  you  are  in  every  gesture,  in  the 
way  you  carry  yourself,  in  your  very  eyes." 

"You're  mistaken,"  he  contended,  looking  away  for  fear 
lest  his  eyes  were  indeed  betraying  him.  "Besides,  I  mean 
merely  to  sit  up  here,  to  see  that  everything  is  all  right." 

"How  should  it  be  otherwise?"  She  laughed  the 
thought  away,  yet  not  unkindly.  "This  island  is  as  empty 
as  a  last-year's  bird's-nest.  What  could  happen  to  harm, 
or  even  alarm  us  —  or  me  ?  " 


: 


THE     BEACON  249 

"  You  never  can  tell  - 

"  Nonsense  !  I'm  not  in  the  least  frightened.  And  further 
more  I  shan't  sleep  a  wink  —  shan't  even  try  to  sleep  unless 
you  promise  me  not  to  be  silly.  There's  a  comfortable 
room  right  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  If  you  sleep  there,  I 
shall  feel  more  than  secure.  Will  you  promise  ?" 

He  gave  in  at  discretion  :  "Yes;  I  promise." 

"As  soon  as  you  feel  the  least  need  of  sleep,  you'll  go  to 
bed?" 

"I  promise." 

"Very  well,  then." 

The  insistent  note  faded  from  her  tones.  She  moved 
toward  the  table,  put  the  lamp  down,  and  hesitated  in  one 
of  her  strange,  unpresaged  moods  of  diffidence,  looking 
down  at  the  finger-tips  with  which  she  traced  a  meaningless 
pattern  on  the  oil-cloth. 

"You  are  kind,"  she  said  abruptly,  her  head  bowed,  her 
face  hidden  from  him. 

"Kind  !"  he  echoed,  dumfounded. 

"You  are  kind  and  sweet  and  generous  to  me,"  she  in 
sisted  in  a  level  voice.  "  You  have  shown  me  your  heart  — 
the  heart  of  a  gentleman  —  without  reserve ;  but  of  me 
you  have  asked  nothing." 

"  I  don't  understand  —  " 

"  I  mean,  you  haven't  once  referred  to  what  happened  last 
night.  You've  been  content  to  let  me  preserve  my  confi 
dence,  to  remain  secretive  and  mysterious  in  your  sight. 
.  .  .  That  is  how  I  seem  to  you  —  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Secretive  and  mysterious  ?     But  I  have  no  right  to  your 


250     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

confidence ;  your  affairs  are  yours,  inviolable,  unless  you 
choose  to  discuss  them." 

"You  would  think  that  way  —  of  course!"  Suddenly 
she  showed  him  her  face  illumined  with  its  frank,  shadowy 
smile,  her  sweet  eye~>,  kind  and  as  fearless  as  the  eyes  of  a 
child.  "Other  men  would  not,  I  know.  And  you  have 
every  right  to  know." 

"I  — !" 

"  You ;  and  I  shall  tell  you.  .  .  .  But  not  now ;  there's 
too  much  to  tell,  to  explain  and  make  understandable ;  and 
I'm  too  terribly  tired.  To-morrow,  perhaps  —  or  when  we 
escape  from  this  weird  place,  when  I've  had  time  to  think 
things  out  — 

"At  your  pleasure,"  he  assented  gently.  "Only  —  don't 
let  anything  worry  you." 

Impulsively  she  caught  both  his  hands  in  a  clasp  at  once 
soft  and  strong,  wholly  straightforward  and  friendly. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  in  a  laughing  voice,  her  head 
thrown  back,  soft  shadows  darkening  her  mystical  eyes,  the 
lamplight  caressing  her  hair  until  it  was  as  if  her  head  were 
framed  in  a  halo  of  pure  gold,  bright  against  the  sombre 
background  of  that  mean,  bare  room  —  "  Do  you  know,  dear 
man,  that  you  are  quite,  quite  blind  ?  " 

"I  think,"  he  said  with  his  twisted  smile,  "it  would  be. 
well  for  me  if  I  were  physically  blind  at  this  instant ! " 

She  shook  her  head  in  light  reproof. 

"Blind,  quite  blind!"  she  repeated.  "And  yet  —  I'm 
glad  it's  so  with  you.  I  wouldn't  have  you  otherwise 
for  worlds." 


THE    BEACON  251 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  took  up  the  lamp,  moved  a  little 
away  from  him,  and  paused,  holding  his  eyes. 

"For  Love,  too,  is  blind,"  she  said  softly,  with  a  quaint 
little  nod  of  affirmation.  "Good  night." 

He  started  forward,  eyes  aflame ;  took  a  single  pace  after 
her;  paused  as  if  against  an  unseen  barrier.  His  hands 
dropped  by  his  sides ;  his  chin  to  his  chest ;  the  light  died 
out  of  his  face  and  left  it  gray  and  deeply  lined. 

In  the  hallway  the  lamp's  glow  receded,  hesitated,  began 
to  ascend,  throwing  upon  the  unpapered  walls  a  distorted 
silhouette  of  the  rude  balustrade ;  then  disappeared,  leaving 
the  hall  cold  with  empty  darkness. 

An  inexplicable  fit  of  trembling  seized  Whitaker.  Drop 
ping  into  a  chair,  he  pillowed  his  head  on  his  folded  arms. 
Presently  the  seizure  passed,  but  he  remained  moveless. 
With  the  drift  of  minutes,  insensibly  his  taut  muscles 
relaxed.  Odd  visions  painted  the  dark  tapestries  of  his 
closed  eyes :  a  fragment  of  swinging  seas  shining  in  moon 
light  ;  white  swords  of  light  slashing  the  dark  night  round 
their  unseen  eyrie ;  the  throat  of  a  woman  swelling  firm  and 
strong  as  a  tower  of  ivory,  tense  from  the  collar  of  her 
cheap  gown  to  the  point  of  her  tilted  chin ;  a  shrieking, 
swirling  rabble  of  gulls  seen  against  the  fading  sky,  over 
the  edge  of  a  cliff  .  .  . 

He  slept. 

Through  the  open  doorway  behind  him  and  through  the 
windows  on  either  hand  drifted  the  sonorous  song  of  the  surf, 
a  muted  burden  for  the  stealthy  disturbances  of  the  night 
in  being. 


XVII 

DISCOVERY 

IN  time  the  discomfort  of  his  posture  wore  through  the 
wrappings  of  slumber.  He  stirred  drowsily,  shifted,  and 
discovered  a  cramp  in  his  legs,  the  pain  of  which  more 
effectually  aroused  him.  He  rose,  yawned,  stretched,  gri 
maced  with  the  ache  in  his  stiffened  limbs,  and  went  to  the 
kitchen  door. 

There  was  no  way  to  tell  how  long  he  had  slept.  The 
night  held  black  —  the  moon  not  yet  up.  The  bonfire  had 
burned  down  to  a  great  glowing  heap  of  embers.  The  wind 
was  faint,  a  mere  whisper  in  the  void.  There  was  a  famous 
show  of  stars,  clear,  bright,  cold  and  distant. 

Closing  and  locking  the  door,  he  found  another  lamp, 
lighted  it,  and  took  it  with  him  to  the  corner  bedchamber, 
where  he  lay  down  without  undressing.  He  had,  indeed, 
nothing  to  change  to. 

A  heavy  lethargy  weighed  upon  his  faculties.  No  longer 
desperately  sleepy,  he  was  yet  far  from  rested.  His  body 
continued  to  demand  repose,  but  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease. 

He  napped  uneasily  throughout  the  night,  sleeping  and 
waking  by  fits  and  starts,  his  brain  insatiably  occupied  with 
an  interminable  succession  of  wretched  dreams.  The  mad, 
distorted  face  of  Drummond,  bleached  and  degraded  by  his 
slavery  to  morphine,  haunted  Whitaker's  consciousness  like 

252 


DISCOVERY  253 

some  frightful  and  hideous  Chinese  mask.  He  saw  it  in  a 
dozen  guises,  each  more  pitiful  and  terrible  than  the  last.  It 
pursued  him  through  eons  of  endless  night,  forever  at  his 
shoulder,  blind  and  weeping.  Thrice  he  started  from  his 
bed,  wide  awake  and  glaring,  positive  that  Drummond  had 
been  in  the  room  but  the  moment  gone.  .  .  .  And  each  time 
that  he  lay  back  and  sleep  stole  in  numbing  waves  through 
his  brain,  he  passed  into  subconsciousness  with  the  picture 
before  his  eyes  of  a  seething  cloud  of  gulls  seen  against  the 
sky,  over  the  edge  of  a  cliff. 

He  was  up  and  out  in  the  cool  of  dawn,  before  sunrise,  de 
laying  to  listen  for  some  minutes  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway. 
But  he  heard  no  sound  in  that  still  house,  and  there  was  no 
longer  the  night  to  affright  the  woman  with  hinted  threats 
of  nameless  horrors  lurking  beneath  its  impenetrable  cloak. 
He  felt  no  longer  bound  to  stand  sentinel  on  the  threshold 
of  her  apprehensions.  He  went  out. 

The  day  would  be  clear :  he  drew  promise  of  this  from 
the  gray  bowl  of  the  sky,  cloudless,  touched  with  spreading 
scarlet  only  on  its  eastern  rim.  There  was  no  wind ;  from 
the  cooling  ashes  of  yesternight's  beacon-fire  a  slim  stalk  of 
smoke  grew  straight  and  tall  before  it  wavered  and  broke. 
The  voice  of  the  sea  had  fallen  to  a  muffled  throbbing. 

In  the  white  magic  of  air  like  crystal  translucent  and  mo 
tionless,  the  world  seemed  more  close-knitted  and  sane. 
What  yesterday's  veiling  of  haze  had  concealed  was  now 
bold  and  near.  In  the  north  the  lighthouse  stood  like  a 
horn  on  the  brow  of  the  headland,  the  lamp  continuing  to 
flash  even  though  its  light  was  darkened,  its  beams  out- 


254     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

stripped  by  the  radiant  forerunners  of  the  sun.  Beyond  it, 
over  a  breadth  of  water  populated  by  an  ocean-going  tug 
with  three  barges  in  tow  and  a  becalmed  lumber  schooner, 
a  low-lying  point  of  land  (perhaps  an  island)  thrust  out 
into  the  west.  On  the  nearer  land  human  life  was  quicken 
ing  :  here  and  there  pale  streamers  of  smoke  swung  up  from 
hidden  chimneys  on  its  wooded  rises. 

Whitaker  eyed  them  with  longing.  But  they  were  dis 
tant  from  attainment  by  at  the  least  three  miles  of  tideway 
through  wrhich  strong  waters  raced  —  as  he  could  plainly 
see  from  his  elevation,  in  the  pale,  streaked  and  wrinkled 
surface  of  the  channel. 

He  wagged  a  doubtful  head,  and  scowled :  no  sign  in  any 
quarter  of  a  boat  heading  for  the  island,  no  telling  when 
they'd  be  taken  off  the  cursed  place  ! 

In  his  mutinous  irritation,  the  screaming  of  the  gulls,  over 
in  the  west,  seemed  to  add  the  final  touch  of  annoyance,  a 
superfluous  addition  to  the  sum  of  his  trials.  Why  need 
they  have  selected  that  island  for  their  insane  parliament  ? 
Why  must  his  nerves  be  racked  forever  by  their  incessant 
bickering  ?  He  had  dreamed  of  them  all  night ;  must  he 
endure  a  day  made  similarly  distressing  ? 

What  ivas  the  matter  with  the  addle-pated  things,  anyway  ? 

There  was  nothing  to  hinder  him  from  investigating  for 
himself.  The  girl  would  probably  sleep  another  hour  or 
two. 

He  went  forthwith,  dulling  the  keen  edge  of  his  exas 
peration  with  a  rapid  tramp  of  half  a  mile  or  so  over  the 
uneven  uplands. 


DISCOVERY  255 

The  screaming  was  well-nigh  deafening  by  the  time  he 
stood  upon  the  verge  of  the  bluff ;  beneath  him  gulls  clouded 
-the  air  like  bees  swarming.  And  yet  he  experienced  no 
difficulty  in  locating  the  cause  of  their  excitement. 

Below,  a  slow  tide  crawled,  slavering,  up  over  the  boulder- 
strewn  sands.  In  a  wave-scooped  depression  between  two 
of  the  larger  boulders,  the  receding  waters  had  left  a  little, 
limpid  pool.  In  the  pool  lay  the  body  of  a  man,  face  down 
ward,  limbs  frightfully  sprawling.  Gulls  fought  for  place 
upon  his  back. 

The  discovery  brought  with  it  no  shock  of  surprise  to  the 
man  on  the  bluff :  horror  alone.  He  seemed  to  have 
known  all  along  that  such  would  be  the  cause.  Yet  he  had 
never  consciously  acknowledged  the  thought.  It  had  lain 
sluggish  in  the  deeps  beneath  surfaces  agitated  by  emotions 
more  poignant  and  immediate.  Still,  it  had  been  there  — 
that  understanding.  That,  and  that  only,  had  so  poisoned 
his  rest.  .  .  . 

But  he  shrank  shuddering  from  the  thought  of  the  work 
that  lay  to  his  hand  —  work  that  must  be  accomplished  at 
once  and  completely ;  for  she  must  know  nothing  of  it.  She 
had  suffered  enough,  as  it  was. 

Hastening  back  to  the  farmstead,  he  secured  a  spade  from 
the  barn  and  made  his  way  quickly  down  to  the  beach  by 
way  of  the  road  through  the  cluster  of  deserted  fishermen's 
huts. 

Fifteen  minutes'  walk  brought  him  to  the  pool.  Ten 
minutes'  hard  work  with  the  spade  sufficed  to  excavate 
a  shallow  trench  in  the  sands  above  high-water  mark.  He 


256     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

required  as  much  time  again  to  nerve  himself  to  the  point 
of  driving  off  the  gulls  and  moving  the  body.  There  were 
likewise  crabs  to  be  dealt  with.  .  .  . 

When  it  was  accomplished,  and  he  had  lifted  the  last  heavy 
stone  into  place  above  the  grave,  he  dragged  himself  back 
along  the  beach  and  round  a  shoulder  of  the  bluff  to  a  spot 
warmed  by  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  There,  stripping  off 
his  rags,  he  waded  out  into  the  sea  and  cleansed  himself  as 
best  he  might,  scrubbing  sand  into  his  flesh  until  it  was  scored 
and  angry;  then  crawled  back,  resumed  his  garments,  and 
lay  down  for  a  time  in  the  strength-giving  light,  feeling  giddy 
and  faint  wyith  the  after-effects  of  the  insuppressible  nausea 
which  had  prolonged  intolerably  his  loathsome  task. 

Very  gradually  the  bluish  shadows  faded  from  about  his 
mouth  and  eyes,  and  natural  colour  replaced  his  pallor.  And 
presently  he  rose  and  went  slowly  up  to  the  house,  all  his 
being  in  a  state  of  violent  rebellion  against  the  terror  and 
mystery  of  life. 

What  the  gulls  and  the  crabs  and  the  shattering  surf  had 
left  had  been  little,  but  enough  for  indisputable  identification. 

Whitaker  had  buried  Drummond. 


XVIII 

BLIGHT 

BY  the  time  he  got  back  to  the  farm-house,  the  woman  was 
up,  dressed  in  the  rent  and  stained  but  dry  remnants  of  her 
own  clothing  (for  all  their  defects,  infinitely  more  becoming 
than  the  garments  to  which  she  had  been  obliged  to  resort 
the  previous  day)  and  busy  preparing  breakfast. 

There  was  no  question  but  that  her  rest  had  been  sound 
and  undisturbed.  If  her  recuperative  powers  had  won  his 
envy  before,  now  she  was  wholly  marvellous  in  his  eyes.  Her 
radiant  freshness  dazzled,  her  elusive  but  absolute  quality 
of  charm  bewitched  —  and  her  high  spirits  dismayed  him. 
He  entered  her  presence  reluctantly,  yielding  alone  to  the 
spur  of  necessity.  To  keep  out  of  her  way  was  not  only  an 
impossibility,  but  would  have  served  to  rouse  her  suspicions  ; 
ana  she  must  not  know  :  however  difficult  the  task,  he  must 
aissemble,  keep  her  in  ignorance  of  his  discovery.  On  that 
point  he  was  resolved. 

"Well,  sir  !"  she  called  heartily  over  her  shoulder.  "And 
where,  pray,  have  you  been  all  this  long  time?" 

"I  went  for  a  swim,"  he  said  evasively  —  "thought  it 
might  do  me  good." 

"You're  not  feeling  well  ?"     She  turned  to  look  him  over. 

He  avoided  her  eye.  "  I  had  a  bad  night  —  probably  be- 

257 


258     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

cause  I  had  too  much  sleep  during  the  day.  I  got  up  feeling 
pretty  rusty  —  the  weight  of  my  years.  Cold  water's  ordi 
narily  a  specific  for  that  sort  of  thing,  but  it  didn't  seem  to 
work  this  time." 

"Still  got  the  hump,  eh?" 

"  Still  got  the  hump,"  he  assented,  glad  thus  to  mask  his 
unhappiness. 

"Breakfast  and  a  strong  cup  of  tea  or  two  will  fix  that," 
she  announced  with  confidence.  "It's  too  bad  there's  no 
coffee." 

"Yes,"  he  said  — "sorry!" 

"No  signs  of  a  response  to  our  C.  Q.  D.  ?" 

"None  as  yet.     Of  course,  it's  early." 

He  lounged  out  of  the  kitchen  with  a  tin  bowl,  a  towel  and 
a  bar  of  yellow  soap,  and  splashed  conscientiously  at  the 
pump  in  the  dooryard,  taking  more  time  for  the  job  than 
was  really  necessary. 

From  her  place  by  the  stove,  she  watched  him  through  a 
window,  her  eyes  like  a  sunlit  sea  dappled  with  shadows  of 
clouds  speeding  before  the  wind. 

He  lingered  outside  until  she  called  him  to  breakfast. 

His  stout  attempts  to  match  her  cheerfulness  during  the 
meal  fell  dismally  short  of  conviction.  After  two  or  three 
false  starts  he  gave  it  up  and  took  refuge  in  his  plea  of  in 
disposition.  She  humoured  him  with  a  covert  understanding 
that  surmised  more  in  a  second  than  he  could  have  com 
pressed  into  a  ten-minute  confession. 

The  meal  over,  he  rose  and  sidled  awkwardly  toward  the 
door. 


BLIGHT  259 

"You'll  be  busy  for  a  while  with  the  dishes  and  things, 
aron't  you?"  he  asked  with  an  air  meant  to  seem  guileless. 

"Oh,  yes;   for  some  time,"  she  replied  quickly. 

"I  —  I  think  I'll  take  a  stroll  round  the  island.  There 
might  be  something  like  a  boat  hidden  away  somewhere 
along  the  beach." 

"  You  prefer  to  go  alone  ?  " 

"If  you  don't  mind." 

"Not  in  the  least.  I've  plenty  to  occupy  my  idle 
hands.  If  I  can  find  needle  and  thread,  for  instance  ..." 
She  indicated  her  clothing  with  a  humorously  rueful 
gesture. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  agreed,  far  too  visibly  relieved.  Then 
his  wits  stumbled.  "I  want  to  think  out  some  things,"  he 
added  most  superfluously. 

("You  won't  go  out  of  sight?"  she  pleaded  through  the 
window. 

"It  can't  be  done,"  he  called  back,  strolling  out  of  the 
dooryard  with  much  show  of  idle  indecision. 

His  real  purpose  was,  in  fact,  definite.  There  was  an 
other  body  to  be  accounted  for.  It  was  quite  possible  that 
the  sea  might  have  given  it  up  at  some  other  point  along  the 
island  coast.  True  :  there  was  no  second  gathering  of  gulls 
to  lend  colour  to  this  grisly  theory ;  yet  the  danger  was  one 
to  be  provided  against,  since  she  was  not  to  know. 

Starting  from  its  northwestern  extreme,  he  made  a  com 
plete  circuit  of  the  island,  spending  the  greater  part  of  the 
time  along  the  edges  of  the  western  and  southern  bluffs,  where 
ke  had  not  seldom  to  pause  and  scrutinize  carefully  the 


260     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

beach  below,  to  make  sure  he  had  been  deceived  by  some 
half-buried  rock  or  curiously  shaped  boulder. 

To  his  intense  relief,  he  made  no  further  discovery  other 
than  a  scattering  drift  of  wreckage  from  the  motor-boats. 

By  the  time  he  had  finished,  the  morning  was  well  ad 
vanced.  He  turned  at  length  and  trudged  wearily  up  from 
the  northern  beach,  through  the  community  of  desolation, 
back  toward  the  farmhouse. 

Since  breakfast  he  had  seen  nothing  of  the  girl ;  none  of 
the  elaborately  casual  glances  which  he  had  from  time  to 
time  cast  inland  had  discovered  any  sign  of  her.  But  now 
she  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  after  a  slight  pause,  as  of 
indecision,  moved  down  the  path  to  meet  him. 

He  was  conscious  that,  at  sight  of  her,  his  pulses  quickened. 
Something  swelled  in  his  breast,  something  tightened  the 
muscles  of  his  throat.  The  way  of  her  body  in  action,  the 
way  of  the  sun  with  her  hair  .  .  .  ! 

Dismay  shook  him  like  an  ague ;  he  felt  his  heart  divided 
against  itself ;  he  was  so  glad  of  her,  and  so  afraid  .  .  .  He 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  her,  nor  could  he  make  his  desire 
be  still ;  and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  . 

Walking  the  faster  of  the  two,  she  met  him  midway  be 
tween  the  house  and  the  beach. 

"You've  taken  your  time,  Mr.  Whitaker,"  said  she. 

"It  was  a  bit  of  a  walk,"  he  contended,  endeavouring  to 
imitate  her  lightness  of  manner. 

They  paused  beside  one  of  the  low  stone  walls  that  mean 
dered  in  a  meaningless  fashion  this  way  and  that  over  the 
uplands.  With  a  satisfied  manner  that  suggested  she  had 


BLIGHT  261 

been  seeking  just  that  very  spot,  the  girl  sat  down  upon  the 
lichened  stones,  then  looked  up  to  him  with  a  smile  and  a 
slight  movement  of  the  head  that  plainly  invited  him  to  a 
place  beside  her. 

He  towered  above  her,  darkly  reluctant. 

"Do  sit  down.     You  must  be  tired." 

"I  am." 

Dubiously  he  seated  himself  at  a  little  distance. 

"  And  only  your  pains  for  your  trouble  ?  " 

He  nodded. 

"I  watched  you,  off  and  on,  from  the  windows.  You 
might  have  been  looking  for  a  pin,  from  your  painstaking 
air,  off  there  along  the  cliffs." 

He  nodded  again,  gloomily.  Her  comment  seemed  to 
admit  of  no  more  compromising  method  of  reply. 

"Then  you've  nothing  to  tell  me?" 

He  pursed  his  lips,  depreciatory,  lifted  his  shoulders  not 
quite  happily,  and  swung  one  lanky  leg  across  the  other  as  he 
slouched,  morosely  eyeing  the  sheets  of  sapphire  that  made 
their  prison  walls. 

"No.     There's  no  good  news  yet." 

"  And  you've  no  inclination  to  talk  to  me,  either  ?  " 

"  I've  told  you  I  don't  feel  —  well  —  exactly  light-hearted 
this  morning." 

There  was  a  little  silence.  She  watched  him  askance  with 
her  fugitive,  shadowy,  sympathetic  and  shrewd  smile. 

"Must  I  make  talk,  then?"  she  demanded  at  length. 

"  If  we  must,  I  suppose  —  you'll  have  to  show  the  way. 
My  mind's  hardly  equal  to  trail-breaking  to-day." 


262     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"So  I  shall,  then.  Hugh  .  .  ."  She  leaned  toward 
him,  dropping  her  hand  over  his  own  with  an  effect  of  infinite 
comprehension.  "Hugh,"  she  repeated,  meeting  his  gaze 
squarely  as  he  looked  up,  startled  —  "  what's  the  good  of 
keeping  up  the  make-believe  ?  You  know  !  " 

The  breath  clicked  in  his  throat,  and  his  glance  wavered 
uneasily,  then  steadied  again  to  hers.  And  through  a  long 
moment  neither  stirred,  but  sat  so,  eye  to  eye,  searching  each 
the  other's  mind  and  heart. 

At  length  he  confessed  it  with  an  uncertain,  shamefaced 
nod. 

"That's  right,"  he  said :   "I  do  know  — now." 

She  removed  her  hand  and  sat  back  without  lessening  the 
fixity  of  her  regard. 

"When  did  you  find  it  out?" 

"  This  morning.     That  is,  it  came  to  me  all  of  a  sudden  — ' 
His  gaze  fell ;  he  stammered  and  felt  his  face  burning. 

"Hugh,  that's  not  quite  honest.  I  know  you  hadn't 
guessed,  last  night  —  I  know  it.  How  did  you  come  to  find 
it  out  this  morning  ?  Tell  me  ! " 

He  persisted,  as  unconvincing  as  an  unimaginative  child 
trying  to  explain  away  a  mischief : 

"It  was  just  a  little  while  ago.  I  was  thinking  things 
over  — 

"Hugh!" 

He  shrugged  sulkily. 

"Hugh,  look  at  me!" 

Unwillingly  he  met  her  eyes. 

"How  did  you  find  out?" 


BLIGHT  203 

He  was  an  inexpert  liar.  Under  the  witchery  of  her  eyes, 
his  resource  failed  him  absolutely.  He  started  to  repeat, 
stammered,  fell  still,  and  then  in  a  breath  capitulated. 

"  Before  you  were  up  —  I  meant  to  keep  this  from  you  — 
down  there  on  the  beach  —  I  found  Drummond." 

"Drummond!" 

It  was  a  cry  of  terror.  She  started  back  from  him,  eyes 
wide,  cheeks  whitening. 

"  I'm  sorry  .  .  .  But  I  presume  you  ought  to  know.  .  .  . 
His  body  ...  I  buried  it.  .  .  .  ' 

She  gave  a  little  smothered  cry,  and  seemed  to  shrink  in 
upon  herself,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands  —  an  incongruous, 
huddled  shape  of  grief,  there  upon  the  gray  stone  wall,  set 
against  all  the  radiant  beauty  of  the  exquisite,  sun-gladdened 
world. 

He  was  patient  with  her,  though  the  slow-dragging  minutes 
during  which  she  neither  moved  nor  made  any  sound  brought 
him  inexpressible  distress,  and  he  seemed  to  age  visibly,  his 
face,  settling  in  iron  lines,  gray  with  suffering. 

At  length  a  moan  —  rather,  a  wail  —  came  from  the 
stricken  figure  beside  him : 

"Ah,  the  pity  of  it !  the  pity  of  it !  ...  What  have  I 
done  that  this  should  come  to  me  !" 

He  ventured  to  touch  her  hand  in  gentle  sympathy. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  and  hesitated  with  a  little  wonder, 
remembering  that  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
called  her  by  that  name  —  "  Mary,  did  you  care  for  him 
so  much  ?  " 

She  sat,  mute,  her  face  averted  and  hidden. 


264     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"I'd  give  everything  if  I  could  have  mended  matters.  I 
was  fond  of  Drummond  —  poor  soul !  If  he'd  only  been 
frank  with  me  from  the  start,  all  this  could  have  been  avoided. 
As  soon  as  I  knew  —  that  night  when  I  recognized  you  on 
the  stage  —  I  went  at  once  to  you  to  say  I  would  clear  out 
—  not  stand  in  the  way  of  your  happiness.  I  would  have  said 
as  much  to  him,  but  he  gave  me  no  chance." 

"Don't  blame  him,"  she  said  softly.  "He  wasn't  re 
sponsible." 

"I  know." 

"How  long  have  you  known?"  She  swung  suddenly  to 
face  him. 

"For  some  time  —  definitely,  for  two  or  three  days.  He 
tried  twice  to  murder  me.  The  first  time  he  must  have 
thought  he'd  done  it.  ...  Then  he  tried  again,  the  night 
before  you  were  carried  off.  Ember  suspected,  watched  for 
him,  and  caught  him.  He  took  him  away,  meaning  to  put 
him  in  a  sanitarium.  I  don't  understand  how  he  got  away 
—  from  Ember.  It  worries  me  —  on  Ember's  account. 
I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  him." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!" 

"You  knew  —  I  mean  about  the  cause  —  the  morphine ?" 

"  I  never  guessed  until  that  night.  Then,  as  soon  as  I  got 
over  the  first  awful  shock,  I  realized  he  was  a  madman.  He 
talked  incoherently  —  raved  —  shouted  —  threatened  me 
with  horrible  things.  I  can't  speak  of  them.  Later,  he 
quieted  down  a  little,  but  that  was  after  he  had  come  down 
into  the  cabin  to  —  to  drug  himself.  ...  It  was  very 
terrible  —  that  tiny,  pitching  cabin,  with  the  swinging, 


BLIGHT  265 

smoking  lamp,  and  the  madman  sitting  there,  muttering  to 
himself  over  the  glass  in  which  the  morphine  was  dissolving. 
,  .  .  It  happened  three  times  before  the  wreck ;  I  thought 
I  should  go  out  of  my  own  mind." 

She  shuddered,  her  face  tragic  and  pitiful. 

"Poor  girl !"  he  murmured  inadequately. 

"  And  that  —  that  was  why  you  were  searching  the  beach 
so  closely  !" 

"Yes  —  for  the  other  fellow.     I  —  didn't  find  him." 

A  moment  later  she  said  thoughtfully  :  "  It  was  the  man 
you  saw  watching  me  on  the  beach,  I  think." 

"I  assumed  as  much.  Drummond  had  a  lot  of  money, 
I  fancy  —  enough  to  hire  a  desperate  man  to  do  almost  any 
thing.  .  .  .  The  wages  of  sin  — 

"Don't !"  she  begged.     "Don't  make  me  think  of  that !" 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said. 

For  a  little  she  sat,  head  bowed,  brooding. 

"Hugh  !"  she  cried,  looking  up  to  search  his  face  narrowly 
-  "Hugh,  you've  not  been  pretending  —  ?" 

"Pretending?"  he  repeated,  thick-witted. 

"Hugh,  I  could  never  forgive  you  if  you'd  been  pretending. 
It  would  be  too  cruel  .  .  .  Ah,  but  you  haven't  been  !  Tell 
me  you  haven't ! " 

"  I  don't  understand  .  .  .     Pretending  what  ?  " 

"  Pretending  you  didn't  know  who  I  was  —  pretending  to 
fall  in  love  with  me  just  because  you  were  sorry  for  me,  to 
make  me  think  it  was  me  you  loved  and  not  the  woman  you 
felt  bound  to  take  care  of,  because  you'd  —  you  had  — 

"Mary,  listen  to  me,"  he  interrupted.     "I  swear  I  didn't 


266     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

know  you.  Perhaps  you  don't  understand  how  wonderfully 
you've  changed.  It's  hard  for  me  to  believe  you  can  be  one 
with  the  timid  and  distracted  little  girl  I  married  that  rainy 
night.  You're  nothing  like.  .  .  .  Only,  that  night  on 
the  stage,  as  Joan  Thursday,  you  were  that  girl  again.  Max 
told  me  it  was  make-up ;  I  wouldn't  believe  him ;  to  me  you 
hadn't  changed  at  all ;  you  hadn't  aged  a  day.  .  .  .  But 
that  morning  when  I  saw  you  first  on  the  Great  South 
Beach  —  I  never  dreamed  of  associating  you  with  rny  wife. 
Do  you  realize  I  had  never  seen  you  in  full  light  —  never 
knew  the  colour  of  your  hair  ?  .  .  .  Dear,  I  didn't  know, 
believe  me.  It  was  you  who  bewitched  me  —  not  the 
wife  for  whose  sake  I  fought  against  what  I  thought  in 
fatuation  for  you.  I  loved  —  I  love  you  only,  you  as  you 
are  —  not  the  poor  little  girl  of  the  Commercial  House." 

"  Is  it  true  ? "  she  questioned  sadly,  incredulous. 

"It  is  true,  Mary.     I  love  you." 

"I  have  loved  you  always,"  she  said  softly  between  barely 
parted  lips  —  "  always,  Hugh.  Even  when  I  thought  you 
dead  ...  I  did  believe  that  you  were  drowned  out  there, 
Hugh  !  You  know  that,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  for  an  instant  questioned  it." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  like  you  to,  my  dear  ;  it  wouldn't  be  you, 
my  Hugh.  .  .  .  But  even  then  I  loved  the  memory  of 
you.  .  .  .  You  don't  know  what  you  have  meant  in  my 
life,  Hugh.  Always,  always  you  have  stood  for  all  that  was 
fine  and  strong  and  good  and  generous  —  my  gentlest  man, 
my  knight  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.  .  .  .  No  other  man 
I  ever  knew  —  no,  let  me  say  it !  —  ever  measured  up  to  the 


BLIGHT  267 

standard  you  had  set  for  me  to  worship.  But,  Hugh  — 
you'll  understand,  won't  you  ?  —  about  the  others  —  ?" 

"Please,"  he  begged-  "please  don't  harrow  yourself  so/ 
Mary!" 

"  No ;  I  must  tell  you.  .  .  .  The  world  seemed  so  empty 
and  so  lonely,  Hugh :  my  Galahad  gone,  never  to  re 
turn  to  me.  ...  I  tried  to  lose  myself  in  my  work,  but 
it  wasn't  enough.  And  those  others  came,  beseeching  me, 
and  —  and  I  liked  them.  There  was  none  like  you,  but 
they  were  all  good  men  of  their  kind,  and  I  liked  them. 
They  made  love  to  me  and  —  I  was  starving  for  affection, 
Hugh.  I  was  made  to  love  and  to  be  loved.  Each  time  I 
thought  to  myself :  '  Surely  this  time  it  is  true ;  now  at  last 
am  I  come  into  my  kingdom.  It  can't  fulfil  my  dreams,  for 
I  have  known  the  bravest  man,  but '  - 

Her  voice  broke  and  fell.  Her  eyes  grew  dull  and 
vacant ;  her  vision  passed  through  and  beyond  him,  as  if  he 
had  not  been  there ;  the  bitter  desolation  of  all  the  widowed 
generations  clouded  her  golden  face.  Her  lips  barely 
moved,  almost  inaudibly  enunciating  the  words  that  were 
shaken  from  her  as  if  by  some  occult  force,  ruthless  and 
inexorable : 

"Each  time,  Hugh,  it  was  the  same.  One  by  one  they 
were  taken  from  me,  strangely,  terribly.  .  .  .  Poor  Tom 
Custer,  first ;  he  was  a  dear  boy,  but  I  didn't  love  him  and 
couldn't  marry  him.  I  had  to  tell  him  so.  He  killed  him 
self.  .  .  .  Then  Billy  Hamilton  ;  I  became  engaged  to  him ; 
but  he  was  taken  mysteriously  from  a  crowded  ship  in  mid- 
ocean.  ...  A  man  named  Mitchell  Thurston  loved  me. 


268     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

I  liked  him ;  perhaps  I  might  have  consented  to  marry  him. 
He  was  assassinated  —  shot  down  like  a  mad  dog  in  broad 
daylight  —  no  one  ever  knew  by  whom,  or  why.  He  hadn't 
an  enemy  in  the  world  we  knew  of.  ...  And  now  Drum- 
mond  .  .  .!" 

"Mary,  Mary!"  he  pleaded.  " Don't  —  don't  —  those 
things  were  all  accidents  — 

She  paid  him  no  heed.  She  didn't  seem  to  hear.  He  tried 
to  take  her  hand,  with  a  man's  dull,  witless  notion  of  the  way 
to  comfort  a  distraught  woman;  but  she  snatched  it  from 
his  touch. 

"And  now"  -  her  voice  pealed  out  like  a  great  bell  tolling 
over  the  magnificent  solitude  of  the  forsaken  island  —  "  and 
now  I  have  it  to  live  through  once  again:  the  wonder  and 
terror  and  beauty  of  love,  the  agony  and  passion  of  having 
you  torn  from  me !  .  .  .  Hugh !  .  .  .  I  don't  believe 
I  can  endure  it  again.  I  can't  bear  this  exquisite  torture. 
I'm  afraid  I  shall  go  mad  !  ...  Unless  .  .  .  unless " 
-  her  voice  shuddered  -  -  "  I  have  the  strength,  the  strength 
to—" 

"Good  God!"  he  cried  in  desperation.  "You  must  not 
go  on  like  this  !  Mary!  Listen  to  me!" 

This  time  he  succeeded  in  imprisoning  her  hand.  "  Mary," 
he  said  gently,  drawing  closer  to  her,  "  listen  to  me ;  under 
stand  what  I  say.  I  love  you  ;  I  am  your  husband  ;  nothing 
can  possibly  come  between  us.  All  these  other  things  can 
be  explained.  Don't  let  yourself  think  for  another  in 
stant  — " 

Her  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  two  hands  in  which  he  clasped 


BLIGHT  269 

her  own,  had  grown  wide  and  staring  with  dread.     Momen- 
,  tarily  she  seemed  stunned.     Then  she  wrenched  it  from  him, 
at  the  same  time  jumping  up  and  away. 

"  No  ! "  she  cried,  fending  him  from  her  with  shaking  arms. 
"No!  Don't  touch  me!  Don't  come  near  me,  Hugh! 
It's  .  .  .  it's  death  !  My  touch  is  death  !  I  know  it  now 
- 1  had  begun  to  suspect,  now  I  know  I  I  am  accursed  - 
doomed  to  go  through  life  like  pestilence,  leaving  sorrow  and 
death  in  my  wake.  .  .  .  Hugh!"  She  controlled  herself 
a  trifle  :  "  Hugh,  I  love  you  more  than  life  ;  I  love  you  more 
than  love  itself.  But  you  must  not  come  near  me.  Love 
me  if  you  must,  but,  O  my  dear  one  !  keep  away  from  me ; 
avoid  me,  forget  me  if  you  can,  but  at  all  cost  shun  me  as  you 
would  the  plague  !  I  will  not  give  myself  to  you  to  be  your 
death!" 

Before  he  could  utter  a  syllable  in  reply,  she  turned  and 
fled  from  him,  wildly,  blindly  stumbling,  like  a  hunted  thing 
back  up  the  ascent  to  the  farm-house.  He  followed,  vainly 
calling  on  her  to  stop  and  listen  to  him.  But  she  outdis 
tanced  him,  and  by  the  time  he  had  entered  the  house  was 
in  her  room,  behind  a  locked  door. 


XIX 

CAPITULATION 

GRIMLY  Whitaker  sat  himself  down  in  the  kitchen  and  pre 
pared  to  wait  the  reappearance  of  his  wife  —  prepared  to 
wait  as  long  as  life  was  in  him,  so  that  he  were  there  to  wel 
come  her  when,  her  paroxysm  over,  she  would  come  to  him 
to  be  comforted,  soothed  and  reasoned  out  of  her  distorted 
conception  of  her  destiny. 

Not  that  he  had  the  heart  to  blame  or  to  pity  her  for  that 
terrified  vision  of  life.  Her  history  was  her  excuse.  Nor 
was  his  altogether  a  blameless  figure  in  that  history.  At 
least  it  was  not  so  in  his  sight.  Though  unwittingly,  he  had 
blundered  cruelly  in  all  his  relations  with  the  life  of  that  sad 
little  child  of  the  Commercial  House. 

Like  sunlight  penetrating  storm  wrack,  all  the  dark  dis 
array  of  his  revery  was  shot  through  and  through  by  the 
golden  splendour  of  the  knowledge  that  she  loved  him.  .  .  . 

As  for  this  black,  deadly  shadow  that  had  darkened  her 
life  —  already  he  could  see  her  emerging  from  it,  radiant  and 
wonderful.  But  it  was  not  to  be  disregarded  or  as  yet  ig 
nored,  its  baleful  record  considered  closed  and  relegated  to 
the  pages  of  the  past.  Its  movement  had  been  too  rhyth 
mic  altogether  to  lack  a  reason.  His  very  present  task  was 
to  read  its  riddle  and  exorcise  it  altogether. 

For  hours  he  pondered  it  there  in  the  sunlit  kitchen  of  the 

270 


CAPITULATION  271 

silent  house  —  waiting,  wondering,  deep  in  thought.  Time 
stole  away  without  his  knowledge.  Not  until  late  in  the 
afternoon  did  the  shifted  position  of  the  sun  catch  his 
attention  and  arouse  him  in  alarm.  Not  a  sound  from 
above  .  .  .  ! 

He  rose,  ascended  the  stairs,  tapped  gently  on  the  locked 
door. 

"Mary,"  he  called,  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth  — "Mary  !" 

Her  answer  was  instant,  in  accents  sweet,  calm  and 
clear : 

"I  am  all  right.  I'm  resting,  dear,  and  thinking.  Don't 
fret  about  me.  When  I  feel  able,  I  will  come  down  to  you." 

"As  you  will,"  he  assented,  unspeakably  relieved;  and 
returned  to  the  kitchen. 

The  diversion  of  thought  reminded  him  of  their  helpless 
and  forlorn  condition.  He  went  out  and  swept  the  horizon 
with  an  eager  and  hopeful  gaze  that  soon  drooped  in  disap 
pointment.  The  day  had  worn  on  in  unbroken  calm :  not 
a  sail  stirred  within  the  immense  radius  of  the  waters. 
Ships  he  saw  in  plenty  —  a  number  of  them  moving  under 
power  east  and  west  beyond  the  headland  with  its  crowning 
lighthouse ;  others  —  a  few  —  left  shining  wakes  upon  the 
burnished  expanse  beyond  the  farthest  land  visible  in  the 
north.  Unquestionably  main-travelled  roads  of  the  sea, 
these,  so  clear  to  the  sight,  so  heartbreakingly  unattain 
able  .  .  . 

And  then  his  conscience  turned  upon  him,  reminding  him 
of  the  promise  (completely  driven  out  of  his  mind  by  his 
grim  adventure  before  dawn,  together  with  the  emotional 


272     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

crisis  of  mid-morning)  to  display  some  sort  of  a  day-signal 
of  distress. 

For  something  like  half  an  hour  he  was  busy  with  the  task 
of  nailing  a  turkey-red  table-cloth  to  a  pole,  and  the  pole  in 
turn  (with  the  assistance  of  a  ladder)  to  the  peak  of  the 
gabled  barn.  But  when  this  was  accomplished,  and  he 
stood  aside  and  contemplated  the  drooping,  shapeless  flag, 
realizing  that  without  a  wind  it  was  quite  meaningless, 
the  thought  came  to  him  that  the  very  elements  seemed 
leagued  together  in  a  conspiracy  to  keep  them  prisoners, 
and  he  began  to  nurse  a  superstitious  notion  that,  if  anything 
were  ever  to  be  done  toward  winning  their  freedom,  it  would 
be  only  through  his  own  endeavour,  unassisted. 

Thereafter  for  a  considerable  time  he  loitered  up  and  down 
the  dooryard,  with  all  his  interest  focussed  upon  the  tidal 
strait,  measuring  its  greatest  and  its  narrowest  breadth 
with  his  eye,  making  shrewd  guesses  at  the  strength  and  the 
occasions  of  the  tides. 

If  the  calm  held  on  and  the  sky  remained  unobscured  by 
cloud,  by  eleven  there  would  be  clear  moonlight  and,  if  he 
guessed  aright,  the  beginning  of  a  period  of  slack  water. 

Sunset  interrupted  his  calculations  —  sunset  and  his  wife. 
Sounds  of  some  one  moving  quietly  round  the  kitchen,  a  soft 
clash  of  dishes,  the  rattling  of  the  grate,  drew  him  back  to 
the  door. 

She  showed  him  a  face  of  calm  restraint  and  implacable 
resolve,  if  scored  and  flushed  with  weeping.  And  her  habit 
matched  it:  she  had  overcome  her  passion;  her  eyes  were 
glorious  with  peace. 


CAPITULATION  273 

"Hugh" — her  voice  had  found  a  new,  sweet  level  of 
gentleness  and  strength  —  "I  was  wondering  where  you 
were." 

"Can  I  do  anything?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I 
am." 

"For  what,  in  Heaven's  name?" 

She  smiled.  ...  "  For  neglecting  you  so  long.  I  really 
didn't  think  of  it  until  the  sunlight  began  to  redden.  I've 
let  you  go  without  your  lunch." 

"It  didn't  matter—  " 

"  I  don't  agree.  Man  must  be  fed  —  and  so  must  woman. 
I'm  famished !" 

"Well,"  he  admitted  with  a  short  laugh  —  "so  am  I." 

She  paused,  regarding  him  with  her  whimsical,  indulgent 
smile.  "You  strange  creature!"  she  said  softly.  "Are 
you  angry  with  me  —  impatient  —  for  this  too  facile  descent 
from  heroics  to  the  commonplace?  But,  Hugh"  —she 
touched  his  arm  with  a  gentle  and  persuasive  hand  —  "  it 
must  be  commonplace.  We're  just  mortals,  after  all,  you 
know,  no  matter  how  imperishable  our  egos  make  us  feel : 
and  the  air  of  the  heights  is  too  fine  and  rare  for  mortals  to 
breathe  long  at  a  time.  Life  is,  after  all,  an  everyday  affair. 
We've  just  got  to  blunder  through  it  from  day  to  day  — 
mostly  on  the  low  levels.  Be  patient  with  me,  dear." 

But,  alarmed  by  his  expression,  her  words  stumbled  and 
ran  out.  She  stepped  back  a  pace,  a  little  flushed  and 
tremulous. 

"Hugh!    No,  Hugh,  no!" 


274     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me,"  he  said,  turning  away.  "I  don't 
mean  to  bother.  Only  —  at  times  — " 

"I  know,  dear;  but  it  must  not  be."  She  had  recovered; 
there  was  cool  decision  in  her  accents.  She  began  to  move 
briskly  round  the  kitchen,  setting  the  table,  preparing  the 
meal. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  reason  with  her,  but  sat  quietly 
waiting.  His  role  was  patience,  tolerance,  strength  re 
strained  in  waiting.  .  .  . 

"Shall  you  make  a  fire  again  to-night?"  she  asked,  when 
they  had  concluded  the  meal. 

"In  three  places,"  he  said.  "We'll  not  stay  another  day 
for  want  of  letting  people  know  we're  here." 

She  looked  down,  shyly.  Coquetry  with  her  was  instinc 
tive,  irrepressible.  Her  vague,  provoking  smile  edged  her 
lips: 

"You  —  you  want  to  be  rid  of  me  again,  so  soon,  Hugh  ?" 

He  bent  over  the  table  writh  a  set  face,  silent  until  his  un- 
deviating  gaze  caught  and  held  her  eyes. 

"Mary,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  want  you.  I  mean  to  have 
you.  Only  by  getting  away  from  this  place  will  that  be 
possible.  You  must  come  to  me  of  your  own  will. " 

She  made  the  faintest  negative  motion  of  her  head,  her 
eyes  fixed  to  his  in  fascination. 

"You  will,"  he  insisted,  in  the  same  level  tone.  "If  you 
love  me,  as  you  say,  you  must.  .  .  .  No  —  that's  nonsense 
I  won't  listen  to  !  Renunciation  is  a  magnificent  and  noble 
thing,  but  it  must  have  a  sane  excuse.  .  .  .  You  said  a  while 
ago,  this  was  a  commonplace  world,  life  an  everyday  affair. 


CAPITULATION  275 

It  is.  The  only  thing  that  lifts  it  out  of  the  deadly,  in 
tolerable  rut  is  this  wonderful  thing  man  has  invented  and 
named  Love.  Without  it  we  are  as  Nature  made  us  — 
brute  things  crawling  and  squabbling  in  blind  squalor. 
But  love  lifts  us  a  little  above  that :  love  is  supernatural, 
the  only  thing  in  all  creation  that  rises  superior  to  nature. 
There's  no  such  thing  as  a  life  accursed ;  no  such  thing  as  a 
life  that  blights ;  there  are  no  malign  and  vicious  forces 
operating  outside  the  realm  of  natural  forces :  love  alone  is 
supreme,  subject  to  no  known  laws.  I  mean  to  prove  it  to 
you ;  I  mean  to  show  you  how  little  responsible  you  have  been 
in  any  way  for  the  misfortunes  that  have  overtaken  men 
who  loved  you;  I  shall  show  you  that  I  am  far  more 
blameworthy  than  you.  .  .  .  And  when  I  have  done  that, 
you  will  come  to  me." 

" I  am  afraid,"  she  whispered  breathlessly  —  "I  am  afraid 
I  shall." 

He  rose.  "Till  then,  my  dearest  girl,  don't,  please  don't 
ever  shrink  from  me  again.  I  may  not  be  able  to  dissemble 
my  love,  but  until  your  fears  are  done  away  with,  your  mind 
at  rest,  no  act  of  mine,  within  my  control,  shall  ever  cause 
you  even  so  much  as  an  instant's  annoyance  or  distress." 

His  tone  changed.  "  I'll  go  now  and  build  my  fires.  When 
you  are  ready  —  ?  " 

"  I  shan't  be  long,"  she  said. 

But  for  long  after  he  had  left  her,  she  lingered  moveless  by 
a  window,  her  gaze  following  him  as  he  moved  to  and  fro : 
her  face  now  wistful,  now  torn  by  distress,  now  bright  with 
longing.  Strong  passions  contended  within  her  —  love  and 


276     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

fear,  joy  and  regret;  at  times  crushing  apprehensions  of 
evil  darkened  her  musings,  until  she  could  have  cried  out 
with  the  torment  of  her  fears;  and  again  intimations  pos 
sessed  her  of  exquisite  beauty,  warming  and  ennobling  her 
heart,  all  but  persuading  her. 

At  length,  sighing,  she  lighted  the  lamp  and  went  about 
her  tasks,  with  a  bended  head,  wondering  and  frightened, 
fearfully  questioning  her  own  inscrutable  heart.  Was  it  for 
this  only  that  she  had  fought  herself  all  through  that  day : 
that  she  should  attain  an  outward  semblance  of  calm  so  com 
plete  as  to  deceive  even  herself,  so  frail  as  to  be  rent  away 
and  banished  completely  by  the  mere  tones  of  his  mastering 
voice  ?  Was  she  to  know  no  rest  ?  Was  it  to  be  her  fate  to 
live  out  her  days  in  yearning,  eating  her  heart  alone,  feed 
ing  with  sighs  the  passing  winds  ?  Or  was  she  too  weary  to 
hold  by  her  vows?  Was  she  to  yield  and,  winning  happi 
ness,  in  that  same  instant  encompass  its  destruction  ?  .  .  . 

When  it  was  quite  dark,  Whitaker  brought  a  lantern  to 
the  door  and  called  her,  and  they  went  forth  together. 

As  he  had  promised,  he  had  built  up  three  towering  pyres, 
widely  apart.  When  all  three  were  in  full  roaring  flame, 
their  illumination  was  hot  and  glowing  over  all  the  upland. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  the  world  should  not  now  become 
cognizant  of  their  distress. 

At  some  distance  to  the  north  of  the  greatest  fire  —  that 
nearest  the  farm-house  —  they  sat  as  on  the  previous  night, 
looking  out  over  the  black  and  unresponsive  waters,  com 
muning  together  in  undertones. 

In  that  hour  they  learned  much  of  one  another:    much 


CAPITULATION  277 

that  had  seemed  strange  and  questionable  assumed,  in  the 
understanding  of  each,  the  complexion  of  the  normal  and 
right.  Whitaker  spoke  at  length  and  in  much  detail  of 
his  Wilful  Missing  years  without  seeking  to  excuse  the 
wrong-minded  reasoning  which  had  won  him  his  own  consent 
to  live  under  the  mask  of  death.  He  told  of  the  motives 
that  had  prompted  his  return,  of  all  that  had  happened 
since  in  which  she  had  had  no  part  —  with  a  single  reservation. 
One  thing  he  kept  back  :  the  time  for  that  was  not  yet. 

A  listener  in  his  turn,  he  heard  the  history  of  the  little  girl 
of  the  Commercial  House  breaking  her  heart  against  the 
hardness  of  life  in  what  at  first  seemed  utterly  futile  endeavour 
to  live  by  her  own  efforts,  asking  nothing  more  of  the  man 
who  had  given  her  his  name.  To  make  herself  worthy  of 
that  name,  so  that,  living  or  dead,  he  might  have  no  cause 
to  be  ashamed  of  her  or  to  regret  the  burden  he  had  assumed  : 
this  was  the  explanation  of  her  fierce  striving,  her  undaunted 
renewal  of  the  struggle  in  the  face  of  each  successive  defeat, 
her  renunciation  of  the  competence  his  forethought  had 
provided  for  her.  So  also  —  since  she  would  take  nothing 
from  her  husband  —  pride  withheld  her  from  asking  any 
thing  of  her  family  or  her  friends.  She  cut  herself  off 
utterly  from  them  all,  fought  her  fight  alone. 

He  learned  of  the  lean  years  of  drifting  from  one  theatrical 
organization  to  another,  forced  to  leave  them  one  by  one  by 
conditions  impossible  and  intolerable,  until  Ember  found  her 
playing  ingenue  parts  in  a  mean  provincial  stock  company ; 
of  the  coming  of  Max,  his  interest  in  her,  the  indefatigable 
pains  he  had  expended  coaching  her  to  bring  out  the  latent 


278     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

ability  his  own  genius  divined ;  of  the  initial  performance  of 
"  Joan  Thursday  "  before  a  meagre  and  indifferent  audience, 
her  instant  triumph  and  subsequent  conquest  of  the  country 
in  half  a  dozen  widely  dissimilar  roles ;  finally  of  her  decision 
to  leave  the  stage  when  she  married,  for  reasons  compre 
hensible,  demanding  neither  exposition  nor  defence. 

"It  doesn't  matter  any  longer,"  she  commented,  con 
cluding  :  "  I  loved  and  I  hated  it.  It  was  deadly  and  it  was 
glorious.  But  it  no  longer  matters.  It  is  finished:  Sara 
Law  is  no  more." 

"You  mean  never  to  go  back  to  the  stage  ?" 

"Never." 

"  And  yet  —  "  he  mused  craftily. 

"Never!"  She  fell  blindly  into  his  trap.  "I  promised 
myself  long  ago  that  if  ever  I  became  a  wife  — " 

"But  you  are  no  wife,"  he  countered. 

"Hugh!" 

"You  are  Mrs.  Whitaker  —  yes ;  but  — " 

"Dear,  you  are  cruel  to  me  !" 

"I  think  it's  you  who  would  be  cruel  to  yourself,  dear 
heart." 

She  found  no  ready  answer ;  was  quiet  for  a  space ;  then 
stirred,  shivering.  Behind  them  the  fires  were  dying;  by 
contrast  a  touch  of  chill  seemed  to  pervade  in  the  motionless 
air. 

"I  think,"  she  announced,  "we'd  better  go  in." 

She  rose  without  assistance,  moved  away  toward  the 
house,  paused  and  returned. 

"Hugh,"  she  said  gently,  with  a  quaver  in  her  voice  that 


CAPITULATION  279 

wounded  his  conceit  in  himself;  for  he  was  sure  it  spelled 
laughter  at  his  expense  and  well-merited  —  "  Hugh,  you  big 
sulky  boy !  get  up  this  instant  and  come  back  to  the  house 
with  me.  You  know  I'm  timid.  Aren't  you  ashamed  of 
yourself?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  grumbled,  rising.  "I  presume  it's 
childish  to  want  the  moon  —  and  sulk  when  you  find  you 
can't  have  it." 

"Or  a  star?" 

He  made  no  reply ;  but  his  very  silence  was  eloquent. 
She  attempted  a  shrug  of  indifference  to  his  disapproval,  but 
didn't  convince  even  herself;  and  when  he  paused  before 
entering  the  house  for  one  final  look  into  the  north,  she 
waited  on  the  steps  above  him. 

"Nothing,  Hugh  ?"  she  asked  in  a  softened  voice. 

"Nothing,"  he  affirmed  dully. 

"It's  strange,"  she  sighed. 

"Lights  enough  off  beyond  the  lighthouse  yonder,"  he 
complained :  "  red  lights  and  green,  bound  east  .and  west. 
But  you'd  think  this  place  was  invisible,  from  the  way  we're 
ignored.  However  ..." 

They  entered  the  kitchen. 

"Well  —  however?"  she  prompted,  studying  his  lowering 
face  by  lamplight. 

" Something'll  have  to  be  done;  if  they  won't  help  us, 
we'll  have  to  help  ourselves." 

"  Hugh  !  "  There  was  ajarm  in  her  tone.  He  looked  up 
quickly.  "  Hugh,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"Oh  —  nothing.     But  I've  got  to  think  of  something." 


280     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

She  came  nearer,  intuitively  alarmed  and  pleading. 
"Hugh,  you  wouldn't  leave  me  here  alone?" 

"What  nonsense  !" 

"  Promise  me  you  won't." 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said  evasively.  "I'll  be  here  —  as 
always  —  when  you  wake  up." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  stepped  back  without  removing 
her  gaze  from  his  face,  then  with  a  gesture  of  helplessness 
took  up  her  lamp. 

"Goodnight,  Hugh." 

"  Good  night,"  he  replied,  casting  about  for  his  own  lamp. 

But  when  he  turned  back,  she  was  still  hesitating  in  the 
doorway.  He  lifted  inquiring  brows. 

"Hugh  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"  I  trust  you.     Be  faithful,  dear." 

"Thank  you,"  he  returned,  not  without  flavour  of  bitter 
ness.  "I'll  try  to  be.  Goodnight." 

She  disappeared;  the  light  of  her  lamp  faded,  flickering 
in  the  draught  of  the  hall,  stencilled  the  wall  with  its  evanes 
cent  caricature  of  the  balustrade,  and  was  no  longer  visible. 

"Hugh  !"  her  voice  rang  from  the  upper  floor. 

He  started  violently  out  of  deep  abstraction,  and  replied 
inquiringly. 

"  You  won't  forget  to  lock  the  door  ? " 

He  swore  violently  beneath  his  breath;  controlled  his 
temper  and  responded  pleasantly :  "  Certainly  not." 

Then  he  shut  the  outside  door  with  a  convincing  bang. 

"If  this  be  marriage  .  .  . !"     He  smiled  his  twisted  smile, 


CAPITULATION  281 

laughed  a  little  quietly,  and  became  again  his  normal,  good- 
natured  self,  if  a  little  unusually  preoccupied. 

Leaving  the  kitchen  light  turned  low,  he  went  to  his  own 
room  and,  as  on  the  previous  night,  threw  himself  upon  the 
bed  without  undressing;  but  this  time  with  no  thought  of 
sleep.  Indeed,  he  had  no  expectation  of  closing  his  eyes  in 
slumber  before  the  next  night,  at  the  earliest;  he  had  no 
intention  other  than  to  attempt  to  swim  to  the  nearest 
land.  In  the  illusion  of  night,  his  judgment  worked  upon 
by  his  emotions,  that  plan  which  had  during  the  afternoon 
suggested  itself,  been  thoroughly  considered,  rejected  as  too 
desperately  dangerous,  and  then  reconsidered  in  the  guise  of 
their  only  possible  chance  of  escape  at  any  reasonably  early 
date,  began  to  assume  a  deceptive  semblance  of  feasibility. 

He  did  not  try  to  depreciate  its  perils :  the  tides  that 
swept  through  that  funnel-shaped  channel  were  unquestion 
ably  heavy :  heavier  than  even  so  strong  a  swimmer  as  he 
should  be  called  upon  to  engage ;  the  chances  of  being  swept 
out  to  sea  were  appallingly  heavy.  The  slightest  error  in 
judgment,  the  least  miscalculation  of  the  turn  of  the  tide, 
and  he  was  as  good  as  lost. 

On  the  other  hand,  with  a  little  good  luck,  by  leaving  tha 
house  shortly  after  moonrise,  he  should  be  able  to  catch 
the  tide  just  as  it  was  nearing  high  water.  Allowing  it  to 
swing  him  northwest  until  it  fulled,  he  ought  to  be  a  third  of 
the  way  across  by  the  time  it  slackened,  and  two-thirds 
of  the  distance  before  it  turned  seawards  again.  And 
the  distance  was  only  three  miles  or  so. 

And  the  situation  on  the  island  had  grown  unendurable. 


THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

He  doubted  his  strength  to  stand  the  torment  and  the  prov 
ocation  of  another  day. 

Allow  an  hour  and  a  half  for  the  swim  —  say,  two ;  another 
hour  in  which  to  find  a  boat;  and  another  to  row  or  sail 
back  :  four  hours.  He  should  be  back  upon  the  island  long 
before  dawn,  even  if  delayed.  Surely  no  harm  could  come 
to  her  in  that  time ;  surely  he  ought  to  be  able  to  reckon  on 
her  sleeping  through  his  absence  —  worn  down  by  the  stress 
of  the  day's  emotions  as  she  must  certainly  be.  True,  he  had 
given  her  to  understand  he  would  not  leave  her;  but  she 
need  not  know  until  his  return ;  and  then  his  success  would 
have  earned  him  forgiveness. 

An  hour  dragged  out  its  weary  length,  and  the  half  of 
another  while  he  reasoned  writh  himself,  drugging  his  con 
science  and  his  judgment  alike  with  trust  in  his  lucky  star. 
In  all  that  time  he  heard  no  sound  from  the  room  above 
him ;  and  for  his  part  he  lay  quite  unstirring,  his  whole  body 
relaxed,  resting  against  the  trial  of  strength  to  come. 

Insensibly  the  windows  of  his  room,  that  looked  eastward, 
filled  with  the  pale  spectral  promise  of  the  waning  moon. 
He  rose,  with  infinite  precaution  against  making  any  noise, 
and  looked  out.  The  night  was  no  less  placid  than  the  day 
had  been.  The  ruins  of  his  three  beacons  shone  like  red 
winking  eyes  in  the  black  face  of  night.  Beyond  them  the 
sky  was  like  a  dome  of  crystal,  silvery  green.  And  as  he 
looked,  an  edge  of  silver  shone  on  the  distant  rim  of  the 
waters ;  and  then  the  moon,  misshapen,  wizened  and  dark 
ling,  heaved  sluggishly  up  from  the  deeps. 

Slowly,  on  tiptoes,  Whitaker  stole  toward  the  door,  out 


CAPITULATION  283 

into  the  hall ;  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  paused,  listening 
with  every  nerve  tense  and  straining;  he  fancied  he  could 
just  barely  detect  the  slow,  regular  respiration  of  the  sleeping 
woman.  And  he  could  see  that  the  upper  hallway  was 
faintly  aglow.  She  had  left  her  lamp  burning,  the  door 
open.  Last  night,  though  the  lamp  had  burned  till  dawn, 
that  door  had  been  closed.  .  .  . 

He  gathered  himself  together  again,  took  a  single  step  OB 
toward  the  kitchen ;  and  then,  piercing  suddenly  the  abso 
lute  stillness  within  the  house,  a  board  squealed  like  an 
animal  beneath  his  tread. 

In  an  instant  he  heard  the  thud  and  patter  of  her  foot 
steps  above,  her  loud,  quickened  breathing  as  she  leaned 
over  the  balustrade,  looking  down,  and  her  cry  of  dismay : 
"Hugh!  Hugh!" 

He  halted,  saying  in  an  even  voice:  "Yes;  it  is  I."  She 
had  already  seen  him ;  there  was  no  use  trying  to  get  away 
without  her  knowledge  now ;  besides,  he  was  no  sneak-thief 
to  fly  from  a  cry.  He  burned  with  resentment,  impatience 
and  indignation,  but  he  waited  stolidly  enough  while  the 
woman  flew  down  the  stairs  to  his  side. 

"  Hugh,"  she  demanded,  white-faced  and  trembling,  "  what 
is  the  matter  ?  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

He  moved  his  shoulders  uneasily,  forcing  a  short  laugh. 
"I  daresay  you've  guessed  it.  Undoubtedly  you  have. 
Else  why  -  He  didn't  finish  save  by  a  gesture  of 
resignation. 

"  You  mean  you  were  going  —  going  to  try  to  swim  to  the 
mainland?" 


284     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"I  meant  to  try  it,"  he  confessed. 

"  But,  Hugh  —  your  promise  ?  " 

"I'm  sorry,  Mary;  I  didn't  want  to  promise.  But  you 
see  .  .  .  this  state  of  things  cannot  go  on.  Something  has 
got  tc  be  done.  It's  the  only  way  I  know  of.  I  —  I  can't 
trust  myself  —  " 

"  You'd  leave  me  here  while  you  went  to  seek  death  —  !" 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  as  dangerous  as  all  that.  If  you'd  only  been 
asleep,  as  I  thought  you  were,  I  'd  've  been  back  before  you 
knew  anything  about  it." 

"  I  should  have  known  ! "  she  declared  passionately.  "  I 
was  asleep,  but  I  knew  the  instant  you  stirred.  Tell  me; 
how  long  did  you  stand  listening  here,  to  learn  if  I  was  awake 
or  not?" 

"Several  minutes." 

"I  knew  it,  though  I  was  asleep,  and  didn't  waken  till 
the  board  squeaked.  I  knew  you  would  try  it  —  knew  it 
from  the  time  when  you  quibbled  and  evaded  and  wouldn't 
give  me  a  straight  promise.  Oh,  Hugh,  my  Hugh,  if  you  had 
grcne  and  left  me  .  .  .  !" 

Her  voice  shook  and  broke.  She  swayed  imperceptibly 
toward  him,  then  away,  resting  a  shoulder  against  the  wall 
and  quivering  as  though  she  would  have  fallen  but  for 
that  support.  He  found  himself  unable  to  endure  the  re 
proach  of  those  dark  and  luminous  eyes  set  in  the  mask  of 
pallor  that  was  her  face  in  the  half-light  of  the  hallway.  He 
looked  away,  humbled,  miserable,  pained. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  he  mumbled.  "  I'm  sorry  you  had  to  know 
anything  about  it.  But  ...  it  can't  be  helped,  Mary. 


CAPITULATION  285 

You've  got  to  brace  up.     I  won't  be  gone  four  hours  at  the 
"  Jongest." 

"Four  hours  !"  She  stood  away  from  the  wall,  trembling 
in  every  limb.  "  Hugh,  you  —  you  don't  mean  —  you're  not 
going  —  nowf" 

He  nodded  a  wretched,  makeshift  affirmation. 

"  It  must  be  done,"  he  muttered.     "  Please  - 

"  But  it  must  not  be  done  !     Hugh  ! "     Her  voice  ascended 
"I  —  I  can't  let  you.     I  won't  let  you  !   You  .  .  .     It'll  be 
your  death  —  you'll  drown.     I  shall  have  let  you  go  to  your 
death  — " 

"Oh,  now,  really  -  "  he  protested. 

"But,  Hugh,  I  know  it !  I  feel  it  here."  A  hand  strayed 
to  rest,  fluttering,  above  her  heart.  "If  I  should  let  you 
go  ...  Oh,  my  dear  one,  don't,  don't  go  !" 

"Mary,"  he  began  hoarsely,  "I  tell  you  - 

"You're  only  going,  Hugh,  because  .  .  .  because  I  love 
you  so  I  ...  I  am  afraid  to  let  you  love  me.  That's  true, 
isn't  it?  Hugh  — it's  true?" 

"I  can't  stay  .  .  ."  he  muttered  with  a  hang-dog  air. 

She  sought  support  of  the  wall  again,  her  body  shaken  by 
dry  sobbing  that  it  tore  his  heart  to  hear.  "You  —  you're 
really  going  —  ?" 

He  mumbled  an  almost  inaudible  avowal  of  his  intention. 

"Hugh,  you're  killing  me  !     If  you  leave  me  — 

He  gave  a  gesture  of  despair  and  capitulation. 

"  I've  done  my  best,  Mary.  I  meant  to  do  the  right  thing. 
I—" 

"Hugh,  you  mean  you  won't  go?"    Joy  from  a  sur- 


286     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

charged  heart  rang  vibrant  in  every  syllable  uttered  in  that 
marvellous  voice. 

But  now  he  dared  meet  her  eyes.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I 
won't  go"  -nodding,  with  an  apologetic  shadow  of  his 
twisted  smile.  "I  can't  if  .  .  .  if  it  distresses  you." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear  !" 

Whitaker  started,  staggered  with  amaze,  and  the  burden  of 
his  wife  in  his  arms.  Her  own  arms  clipped  him  close.  Her 
fragrant  tear-gemmed  face  brushed  his.  He  knew  at  last  the 
warmth  of  her  sweet  mouth,  the  dear  madness  of  that  first 
caress. 

The  breathless  seconds  spun  their  golden  web  of  minutes. 
They  did  not  move.  Round  them  the  silence  sang  like  the 
choiring  seraphim.  .  .  . 

Then  through  the  magical  hush  of  that  time  when  the  world 
stood  still,  the  thin,  clear  vibrations  of  a  distant  hail : 

"Aho-oy!" 

In  his  embrace  his  wife  stiffened  and  lifted  her  head  to 
listen  like  a  startled  fawn.  As  one  their  hearts  checked, 
paused,  then  hammered  wildly.  With  a  common  impulse 
they  started  apart. 

"  You  heard  —  ?" 

"Listen  !"     He  held  up  a  hand. 

This  time  it  rang  out  more  near  and  most  unmistakable  : 

"Ahoy!     The  house,  ahoy!" 

With  the  frenzied  leap  of  a  madman,  Whitaker  gained  the 
kitchen  door,  shook  it,  controlled  himself  long  enough  to 
draw  the  bolt,  and  flung  out  into  the  dim  silvery  witchery  of 
the  night.  He  stood  staring,  while  the  girl  stole  to  his  side 


CAPITULATION  287 

and  caught  his  arm.  He  passed  it  round  her,  lifted  the  other 
hand,  dumbly  pointed  toward  the  northern  beach.  For  the 
moment  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 

In  the  sweep  of  the  anchorage  a  small  white  yacht  hovered 
ghostlike,  broadside  to  the  island,  her  glowing  ports  and 
green  starboard  lamp  painting  the  polished  ebony  of  the 
still  waters  with  the  images  of  many  burning  candles. 

On  the  beach  itself  a  small  boat  was  drawn  up.  A  figure 
in  white  waited  near  it.  Issuing  from  the  deserted  fishing 
settlement,  rising  over  the  brow  of  the  uplands,  moved  two 
other  figures  in  white  and  one  in  darker  clothing,  the  latter 
leading  the  way  at  a  rapid  pace. 

With  one  accord  Whitaker  and  his  wife  moved  down  to 
meet  them.  As  they  drew  together,  the  leader  of  the  landing 
party  checked  his  pace  and  called : 

"  Hello  there !  Who  are  you  ?  What's  the  meaning  of 
your  fires  —  ?  " 

Mechanically  Whitaker's  lips  uttered  the  beginning  of  the 
response :  "Shipwrecked  —  signalling  for  help  — 

"Whitaker!"  the  voice  of  the  other  interrupted  with  a 
jubilant  shout.  "Thank  God  we've  found  you  !" 

It  was  Ember. 


XX 

TEMPERAMENTAL 

SELDOM,  perhaps,  has  an  habitation  been  so  unceremoni 
ously  vacated  as  was  the  solitary  farm-house  on  that  isolated 
island.  Whitaker  delayed  only  long  enough  to  place  a 
bill,  borrowed  from  Ember,  on  the  kitchen  table,  in  payment 
for  what  provisions  they  had  consumed,  and  to  extinguish 
the  lamps  and  shut  the  door. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  occupied  a  chair  beneath  an  awnmg 
on  the  after  deck  of  the  yacht,  and,  with  an  empty  glass 
waiting  to  be  refilled  between  his  fingers  and  a  blessed  cigar 
fuming  in  the  grip  of  his  teeth,  stared  back  to  where  their 
rock  of  refuge  rested,  brooding  over  its  desolation,  losing 
bulk  and  conformation  and  swiftly  blending  into  a  small 
dark  blur  upon  the  face  of  the  waters. 

"Ember,"  he  demanded  querulously,  "what  the  devil  V 
that  place?" 

"You  didn't  know?"  Ember  asked,  amused. 

"Not  the  smell  of  a  suspicion.  This  is  the  first  pleasure, 
in  a  manner  of  speaking,  cruise  I've  taken  up  along  this  coast 
I'm  a  bit  weak  on  its  hydrography." 

"Well,  if  that's  the  case,  I  don't  mind  admitting  that  it 
is  No  Man's  Land." 

"I'm  strong  for  its  sponsors  in   baptism.      They  were 

288 


TEMPERAMENTAL  289 

equipped  with  a  strong  sense  of  the  everlasting  fitness  of 
things.  And  the  other  —  ?" 

"Martha's  Vineyard.  That's  Gay  Head  —  the  headland 
with  the  lighthouse.  Off  to  the  north  of  it,  the  Elizabeth 
Islands.  Beyond  them,  Buzzards  Bay.  This  neat  little 
vessel  is  now  standing  about  west-no'th-west  to  pick  up 
Point  Judith  light  —  if  you'll  stand  for  the  nautical  patois. 
After  that,  barring  a  mutiny  on  the  part  of  the  passengers, 
she'll  swing  on  to  Long  Island  Sound.  If  we're  lucky,  we'll 
be  at  anchor  off  East  Twenty-fourth  Street  by  nine  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning.  Any  kick  coming?" 

"  Xot  from  me.  You  might  better  consult  —  my  wife," 
said  Whitaker  with  an  embarrassed  laugh. 

"Thanks,  no:  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you.  Besides,  I've 
turned  her  over  to  the  stewardess,  and  I  daresay  she  won't 
care  to  be  interrupted.  She's  had  a  pretty  tough  time  of  it : 
I  judge  from  your  rather  disreputable  appearance.  Really, 
you're  cutting  a  most  romantical,  shocking  figger." 

"Glad  of  that,"  Whitaker  remarked  serenely.  "Give 
me  another  drink.  ...  I  like  to  be  consistent  —  wouldn't 
care  to  emerge  from  a  personally  conducted  tour  of  all  hell 
looking  like  a  George  Cohan  chorus-boy.  .  .  .  Lord  !  how 
good  tobacco  does  taste  after  you've  gone  without  it  a  few 
days  !  .  .  .  Look  here :  I've  told  you  how  things  were  with 
us,  in  brief ;  but  I'm  hanged  if  you've  disgorged  a  single 
word  of  explanation  as  to  how  you  came  to  let  Drummond 
slip  through  your  fingers,  to  say  nothing  of  how  you  managed 
to  find  us." 

"He  didn't  slip  through  my  fingers,"  Ember  retorted. 


290     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"  He  launched  a  young  earthquake  at  my  devoted  head  and 
disappeared  before  the  dust  settled.  More  explicitly :  I 
had  got  him  to  the  edge  of  the  woods,  that  night,  when  some 
thing  hit  me  from  behind  and  my  light  went  out  in  a  blaze 
of  red  fire.  I  came  to  some  time  later  with  a  tasty  little 
gag  in  my  mouth  and  the  latest  thing  in  handcuffs  on  my 
wrists,  behind  my  back  —  the  same  handcuffs  that  I'd  deco 
rated  Drummond  with  —  and  several  fathoms  of  rope  wound 
round  my  legs.  I  lay  there  —  it  was  a  sort  of  open  work 
barn  —  until  nearly  midnight  the  following  night.  Then 
the  owner  happened  along,  looking  for  something  he'd 
missed  —  another  ass,  I  believe  —  and  let  me  loose.  By  the 
time  I'd  pulled  myself  together,  from  what  you  tell  me,  you 
were  piling  up  on  the  rocks  back  there." 

"Just  before  dawn,  yesterday." 

"Precisely.  Finding  you'd  vacated  the  bungalow,  I 
interviewed  Sum  Fat  and  Elise,  and  pieced  together  a  working 
hypothesis.  It  was  easy  enough  to  surmise  Drummond  had 
some  pal  or  other  working  with  him :  I  was  slung-shotted 
from  behind,  while  Drummond  was  walking  ahead.  And  two 
men  had  worked  in  the  kidnapping  of  Mrs.  Whitaker.  So  I 
went  sleuthing ;  traced  you  through  the  canal  to  Peconic ; 
found  eye-witnesses  of  your  race  as  far  as  Sag  Harbor. 
There  I  lost  you  —  and  there  I  borrowed  this  outfit  from  a 
friend,  an  old-time  client  of  mine.  Meanwhile  I'd  had  a 
general  alarm  sent  out  to  the  police  authorities  all  along  the 
coast  —  clear  to  Boston.  No  one  had  seen  anything  of  you 
anywhere.  It  was  heavy  odds-on,  that  you'd  gone  to  the 
bottom  in  that  blow,  all  of  you;  but  I  couldn't  give  up. 


291 

We  kept  cruising,  looking  up  unlikely  places.  And,  at  that, 
we  were  on  the  point  of  throwing  up  the  sponge  when  I 
picked  up  a  schooner  that  reported  signal  fires  on  No  Man's 
Land.  .  .  .  I  think  that  clears  everything  up." 

"Yes,"  said  Whitaker,  sleepily.  "And  now,  without  in 
gratitude,  may  I  ask  you  to  lead  me  to  a  bath  and  my  bunk. 
I  have  just  about  fifteen  minutes  of  semi-consciousness  to  go 
on." 

Nor  was  this  exaggeration ;  it  was  hard  upon  midnight, 
and  he  had  been  awake  since  before  dawn  of  a  day  whose 
course  had  been  marked  by  a  succession  of  increasingly  ex 
haustive  emotional  crises,  following  a  night  of  interrupted 
and  abbreviated  rest;  add  to  this  the  inevitable  reaction 
from  high  nervous  tension.  His  reserve  vitality  seemed 
barely  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  keep  his  eyes  open  through 
the  rite  of  the  hot  salt-water  bath.  After  that  he  gave 
himself  blindly  into  Ember's  guidance,  and  with  a  mumbled, 
vague  good  night,  tumbled  into  the  berth  assigned  him. 
And  so  strong  was  his  need  of  sleep  that  it  was  not  until  ten 
o'clock  the  following  morning,  when  the  yacht  lay  at  her 
mooring  in  the  East  River,  that  Ember  succeeded  in  rousing 
him  by  main  strength  and  good-will. 

This  having  been  accomplished,  he  was  left  to  dress  and 
digest  the  fact  that  his  wife  had  gone  ashore  an  hour  ago, 
after  refusing  to  listen  to  a  suggestion  that  Whitaker  be 
disturbed.  The  note  Ember  handed  him  purported  to  ex 
plain  what  at  first  blush  seemed  a  singularly  ungrateful  and 
ungracious  freak.  It  was  brief,  but  in  Whitaker's  sight 
eminently  adequate  and  compensating. 


292     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

"DEAREST  BOY:  I  won't  let  them  wake  you,  but  I  must  run 
away.  It's  early  and  I  must  do  some  shopping  before  people  are 
about.  My  house  here  is  closed ;  Mrs.  Secretan  is  in  Maine  with 
the  only  keys  aside  from  those  at  Great  West  Bay;  and  I'm  a 
positive  fright  in  a  coat  and  skirt  borrowed  from  the  stewardess. 
I  don't  want  even  you  to  see  me  until  I'm  decently  dressed.  I 
shall  put  up  at  the  Waldorf ;  come  there  to-night,  and  we  will  dine 

together.     Every  fibre  of  my  being  loves  you. 

"MARY." 

Obviously  not  a  note  to  be  cavilled  at.  Whitaker  took  a 
serene  and  shining  face  to  breakfast  in  the  saloon,  under  the 
eyes  of  Ember. 

Veins  of  optimism  and  of  gratulation  like  threads  of  gold 
ran  through  the  texture  of  their  talk.  There  seemed  to  exist 
a  tacit  understanding  that,  with  the  death  of  Drummond,  the 
cloud  that  had  shadowed  the  career  of  Sara  Law  had  lifted, 
while  her  renunciation  of  her  public  career  had  left  her  with 
a  future  of  glorified  serenity  and  assured  happiness.  By 
common  consent,  with  an  almost  superstitious  awe,  they 
begged  the  question  of  the  shadowed  and  inexplicable  past  — 
left  the  dead  past  to  bury  itself,  bestowing  all  their  fatuous 
concern  with  the  to-day  of  rejoicing  and  the  to-morrow  c': 
splendid  promise. 

Toward  noon  they  parted  ashore,  each  taking  a  taxica": 
to  his  lodgings.     The  understanding  was  that  they  were  tx. 
dine  together  —  all  three,  Whitaker  promising  for  his  wife 
upon  the  morrow. 

At  six  that  evening,  returning  to  his  rooms  to  dress, 
Whitaker  found  another  note  awaiting  him,  in  a  handwriting 
that  his  heart  recognized  with  a  sensation  of  wretched 
apprehension. 


TEMPERAMENTAL  293 

He  dared  not  trust  himself  to  read  it  in  the  public  hall.  It 
was  agony  to  wait  through  the  maddeningly  deliberate 
upward  flight  of  the  elevator.  When  he  at  length  attained 
to  the  privacy  of  his  own  apartment,  he  was  sweating  like 
a  panic-stricken  horse.  He  could  hardly  control  his  fingers 
to  open  the  envelope.  He  comprehended  its  contents  with 
difficulty,  half  blinded  by  a  swimming  mist  of  foreboding. 

"My  DEAR:  I  find  my  strength  unequal  to  the  strain  of  seeing 
you  to-night.  Indeed,  I  am  so  worn  out  and  nerve-racked  that  I  have 
had  to  consult  my  physician.  He  orders  me  immediately  to  a 
sanatorium,  to  rest  for  a  week  or  two.  Don't  worry  about  me.  I 
shan't  fail  to  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I  feel  strong  enough  to  see 
you.  Forgive  me.  I  love  you  dearly. 

"MARY." 

The  paper  slipped  from  Whitaker's  trembling  hand  and 
fluttered  unheeded  to  the  floor.  He  sprang  to  the  telephone 
and  presently  had  the  Waldorf  on  the  wire ;  it  was  true,  he 
learned :  Mrs.  Whitaker  had  registered  at  the  hotel  in  the 
morning,  and  had  left  at  four  in  the  afternoon.  He  was 
refused  information  as  to  whether  she  had  left  a  forwarding 
address  for  her  mail. 

He  wrote  her  immediately,  and  perhaps  not  altogether 
wisely,  under  stress  of  distraction,  sending  the  letter  by 
special  delivery  in  care  of  the  hotel.  It  was  returned  him  in 
due  course  of  time,  embellished  with  a  pencilled  memorandum 
to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Whitaker  had  left  no  address. 

He  communicated  at  once  with  Ember,  promptly  enlisting 
his  willing  services.  But  after  several  days  of  earnest  investi 
gation  the  detective  confessed  himself  baffled. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  he  commented  at  the  conclusion  of  his 


294     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

report,  "  the  answer  is :  she  means  to  be  let  alone  until  she's 
quite  ready  to  see  you  again.  I  don't  pin  any  medals  on  my 
self  for  this  demonstration  of  extraordinary  penetration;  I 
merely  point  out  the  obvious  for  your  own  good.  Contain 
yourself,  my  dear  man  —  and  stop  gnawing  your  knuckles 
like  the  heavy  man  in  a  Third  Avenue  melodrama.  It 
won't  do  any  good ;  your  wife  promised  to  communicate 
with  you  as  soon  as  her  health  was  restored.  And  not  only  is 
she  a  woman  who  keeps  her  promise,  but  it  is  quite  compre 
hensible  that  she  should  have  been  shaken  up  by  her  ex 
traordinary  experience  to  an  extent  we  can  hardly  appreciate 
who  haven't  the  highly  sensitive  organization  of  a  wroman 
to  contend  wyith.  Give  her  time." 

"I  don't  believe  it !"  Whitaker  raged.  "She  —  she  loved 
me  there  on  the  island.  She  couldn't  change  so  quickly, 
bring  herself  to  treat  me  so  cruelly,  unless  some  infernal 
influence  had  been  brought  to  bear  upon  her." 

"It's  possible,  but  I  — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  foolishness  about  her  love  being 
a  man's  death-warrant.  That  may  have  something  to  do 
with  it,  but  —  but,  damn  it !  —  I  conquered  that  once.  She 
promised  .  .  .  was  in  my  arms  ...  I'd  won  her.  .  .  .  She 
loved  me ;  there  wasn't  any  make-believe  about  it.  If  there 
were  any  foundation  for  that  poppycock,  I'd  be  a  dead  man 
now  —  instead  of  a  man  damnably  ill-used  !  .  .  .  No : 
somebody  has  got  hold  of  her,  worked  on  her  sympathies, 
maligned  me  ..." 

"  Do  you  object  to  telling  me  whom  you  have  in  mind  ?" 

"  The  man  you  suspect  as  well  as  I  —  the  one  man  to  whom 


TEMPERAMENTAL  295 

her  allegiance  means  everything :  the  man  you  named  to  me 
the  night  we  met  for  the  first  time,  as  the  one  who'd  profit 
the  most  by  keeping  her  from  leaving  the  stage  !  " 

"Well,  if  it's  Max,  you'll  know  in  time.  It  won't  profit 
him  to  hide  the  light  of  his  star  under  a  bushel ;  he  can  only 
make  money  by  displaying  it." 

"I'll  know  before  long.  As  soon  as  he  gets  back  in 
town—" 

"  So  you've  been  after  him  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  But  he's  out  on  the  Pacific  coast ;  or  so  they 
tell  me  at  the  theatre." 

"And  expected  back  —  when?" 

"Soon." 

"  Do  you  know  when  he  left  ?  " 

"  About  the  middle  of  July  —  they  say  in  his  office." 

"Then  that  lets  him  out." 

"But  it's  a  lie." 

"Well  —  ?" 

"I've  just  remembered:  Max  was  at  the  Fiske  place, 
urging  her  to  return,  the  night  before  you  caught  Drummond 
at  the  bungalow.  I  saw  them,  walking  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  cottage,  arguing  earnestly  :  I  could  tell  by  her  bearing 
she  was  refusing  whatever  he  proposed.  But  I  didn't  know 
her  then,  and  naturally  I  never  connected  Max  with  the  fellow 
I  saw,  disguised  in  a  motoring  coat  and  cap.  Neither  of  'em 
had  any  place  in  my  thoughts  that  night." 

Ember  uttered  a  thoughtful  "Oh?"  adding:  "Did  you 
find  out  at  all  definitely  when  Max  is  expected  back  ?" 

"Two  or  three  weeks  now,  they  say.    He's  got  his  winter 


296     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

productions  to  get  under  way.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  looks 
to  me  as  if  he  must  be  neglecting  'em  strangely;  it's  my 
impression  that  the  late  summer  is  a  producing  manager's 
busiest  time." 

"Max  runs  himself  by  his  own  original  code,  I'm  afraid. 
The  chances  are  he's  trying  to  raise  money  out  on  the  Coast. 
No  money,  no  productions  —  in  other  words." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  But  there  may  be  something  in  what  you  say  —  suspect, 
that  is.  If  I  agree  to  keep  an  eye  on  him,  will  you  promise 
to  give  me  a  free  hand  ?" 

"Meaning  —  ?" 

"Keep  out  of  Max's  way :  don't  risk  a  wrangle  with  him." 

"Why  the  devil  should  I  be  afraid  of  Max?" 

"  I  know  of  no  reason  —  as  yet.  But  I  prefer  to  work 
unhampered  by  the  indiscretions  of  my  principals." 

"  Oh  —  go  ahead  —  to  blazes  —  as  far  as  you  like." 

"Thanks,"  Ember  dryly  wound  up  the  conference;  "but 
these  passing  flirtations  with  your  present-day  temper  leave 
me  with  no  hankering  for  greater  warmth."  .  .  . 

Days  ran  stolidly  on  into  weeks,  and  these  into  a  month. 
Nothing  happened.  Max  did  not  return;  the  whispered 
rumour  played  wild-fire  in  theatrical  circles  that  the  eccentric 
manager  had  encountered  financial  difficulties  insuperable. 
The  bill-boards  flanking  the  entrance  to  the  Theatre  Max 
continued  to  display  posters  announcing  the  reopening 
early  in  September  with  a  musical  comedy  by  Tynan  Dodd ; 
but  the  comedy  was  not  even  in  rehearsal  by  September 
fifteenth. 


T  E  M  P  E  R  A  M  E  X  T  A  L  297 

Ember  went  darkly  about  his  various  businesses,  taciturn 
—  even  a  trace  more  than  ever  reserved  in  his  communication 
with  Whitaker  —  preoccupied,  but  constant  in  his  en 
deavour  to  enhearten  the  desponding  husband.  He  refused 
to  hazard  any  surmises  whatever  until  the  return  of  Max  or 
the  reappearance  of  Mary  Whitaker. 

She  made  no  sign.  Now  and  then  Whitaker  would  lose 
patience  and  write  to  her:  desperate  letters,  fond  and  en 
dearing,  passionate  and  insistent,  wistful  and  pleading,  strung 
upon  a  single  theme.  Despatched  under  the  address  of  her 
town  house,  they  vanished  from  his  ken  as  mysteriously  and 
completely  as  she  herself  had  vanished.  He  received  not  a 
line  of  acknowledgment. 

Day  by  day  he  made  up  his  mind  finally  and  definitely 
to  give  it  up,  to  make  an  end  of  waiting,  to  accept  the  harsh 
cruelty  of  her  treatment  of  him  as  an  absolute  definition 
of  her  wishes  —  to  sever  his  renewed  life  in  Newr  York  and 
return  once  and  for  all  to  the  Antipodes.  And  day  by  day  he 
paltered,  doubted,  put  off  going  to  the  steamship  office  to 
engage  passage.  The  memory  of  that  last  day  on  the  lonely 
island  would  not  down.  Surely  she  dared  not  deny  the  sel: 
she  had  then  revealed  to  him  !  Surely  she  must  be  des 
perately  ill  and  unable  to  write,  rather  than  ignoring  him 
so  heartlessly  and  intentionally.  Surely  the  morrow  would 
bring  word  of  her  ! 

Sometimes,  fretted  to  a  frenzy,  he  sought  out  Ember  and 
made  wild  and  unreasonable  demands  upon  him.  These 
failing  of  any  effect  other  than  the  resigned  retort,  "I  am 
a  detective,  not  a  miracle-monger,"  he  would  fly  into 


298     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

desperate,  gnawing,  black  rages  that  made  Ember  fear  for 
his  sanity  and  self-control  and  caused  him  to  be  haunted 
by  that  gentleman  for  hours  —  once  or  twice  for  days  — 
until  he  resumed  his  normal  poise  of  a  sober  and  civilized 
man.  He  was,  however,  not  often  aware  of  this  sedulous 
espionage. 

September  waned  and  October  dawned  in  grateful  cool 
ness  :  an  exquisite  month  of  crisp  nights  and  enlivening 
days,  of  mellowing  sunlight  and  early  gloamings  tenderly 
coloured.  Country  houses  were  closed  and  theatres  re 
opened.  Fifth  Avenue  after  four  in  the  afternoon  became 
thronged  with  an  ever  thickening  army  —  horse,  foot 
and  motor-car.  Several  main-travelled  thoroughfares  were 
promptly  torn  to  pieces  and  set  up  on  end  by  municipal 
authorities  with  a  keen  eye  for  the  discomfort  of  the  public. 
A  fresh  electric  sign  blazed  on  Broadway  every  evening,  and 
from  Thirty-fourth  Street  to  Columbus  Circle  the  first 
nights  crackled,  detonated,  sputtered  and  fizzled  like  a 
string  of  cheap  Chinese  firecrackers.  One  after  another 
the  most  exorbitant  restaurants  advanced  their  prices  and 
decreased  their  portions  to  the  prompt  and  extraordinary 
multiplication  of  their  clientele :  restaurant  French  for  a 
species  of  citizen  whose  birth-rate  is  said  to  be  steadfast  to 
the  ratio  of  sixty  to  the  hour.  Wall  Street  wailed  loudly 
of  its  poverty  and  hurled  bitter  anathemas  at  the  President, 
the  business  interest  of  the  country  continued  to  suffer 
excruciating  agonies,  and  the  proprietors  of  leading  hotels 
continued  to  add  odd  thousands  of  acres  to  their  game 
preserves. 


TEMPERAMENTAL  299 

Then  suddenly  the  town  blossomed  overnight  with  huge 
eight-sheet  posters  on  every  available  hoarding,  blazoning 
the  news : 

JULES  MAX 
begs  to  announce  the  return  of 

SARA  LAW 
in  a  new  Comedy  entitled  FAITH 

by  JULES  MAX 
Theatre  MAX  —  Friday  October  15th 

But  Whitaker  had  the  information  before  he  saw  the  broad 
sides  in  the  streets.  The  morning  paper  propped  up  on  his 
breakfast  table  contained  the  illuminating  note  under  the 
caption,  "News  of  Plays  and  Players"  : 

"Jules  Max  has  sprung  another  and  perhaps  his  greatest  surprise 
on  the  theatre-going  public  of  this  city.  In  the  face  of  the  rumor 
that  he  was  in  dire  financial  straits  and  would  make  no  productions 
whatever  this  year,  the  astute  manager  has  been  out  of  town  for  two 
months  secretly  rehearsing  the  new  comedy  entitled  'Faith1  of 
which  he  is  the  author  and  in  which  Sara  Law  will  return  finally 
to  the  stage. 

"Additional  interest  attaches  to  this  announcement  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  Miss  Law  has  authorized  the  publication  of  her  in 
tention  never  again  to  retire  from  the  stage.  Miss  Law  is  said  to 
have  expressed  herself  as  follows :  '  It  is  my  dearest  wish  to  die  in 
harness.  I  have  come  to  realize  that  a  great  artiste  has  no  duty 
greater  than  her  duty  to  her  art.  I  dedicate  my  life  and  artistry 
to  the  American  Public.' 

"  The  opening  performance  of  '  Faith '  will  take  place  at  the  The 
atre  Max  to-morrow  evening,  Friday,  October  15.  The  sale  of  seats 
opens  at  the  box-office  this  morning.  Despite  the  short  notice, 


300     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

a  bumper  house  is  confidently  expected  to  welcome  back  this  justly 
popular  and  most  charming  American  actress  in  the  first  play  of 
which  Mr.  Max  has  confessed  being  the  author." 

Whitaker  glanced  up  incredulously  at  the  date-line  of  the 
sheet.  Short  notice,  indeed  :  the  date  was  Thursday,  Octo 
ber  fourteenth.  Max  had  planned  his  game  and  had  played 
his  cards  cunningly,  in  withholding  this  announcement  until 
the  last  moment.  So  much  was  very  clear  to  him  whose  eyes 
had  wit  to  read  between  those  lines  of  trite  press-agent 
phraseology. 

After  a  pause  Whitaker  rose  and  began  to  walk  the  length 
of  the  room,  hands  in  his  pockets,  head  bowed  in  thought. 
He  was  telling  himself  that  he  was  not  greatly  surprised, 
after  all ;  he  was  wondering  at  his  coolness ;  and  he  was 
conning  over,  with  a  grim,  sardonic  kink  in  his  twisted 
smile,  the  needless  precautions  taken  by  the  dapper  little 
manager  in  his  fear  of  Whitaker's  righteous  wrath.  For 
Whitaker  had  no  intention  of  interfering  in  any  way.  He 
conceived  it  a  possibility  that  his  conge  might  have  been 
more  kindly  given  him,  but  ...  he  had  received  it,  and  he 
was  not  slow  to  recognize  it  as  absolute  and  without  appeal. 
The  thing  was  finished.  The  play  was  over,  so  far  as  con 
cerned  his  part  therein.  He  had  no  doubt  played  it  poorly ; 
but  at  least  his  exit  would  not  lack  a  certain  quality  of 
dignity.  Whitaker  promised  himself  that. 

He  thought  it  really  astonishing,  his  coolness.  He  analyzed 
his  psychological  processes  with  a  growing  wonder  and  with 
as  much,  if  less  definite,  resentment.  He  would  not  have 
thought  it  credible  of  himself.  Search  as  he  would,  he 


TEMPERAMENTAL  301 

could  discover  no  rankling  indignation,  no  smouldering 
rage  threatening  to  flame  at  the  least  breath  of  provocation, 
not  even  what  he  might  have  most  confidently  looked  for 
ward  to  —  the  sickening  wrrithings  of  self-love  mortally 
wounded  and  impotent  to  avenge  itself :  nothing  but  some 
self-contempt,  that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  so  carried 
away  by  infatuation  for  an  ignoble  wroman,  and  a  cynic 
humour  that  made  it  possible  for  him  to  derive  a  certain 
satisfaction  from  contemplating  the  completeness  of  this 
final  revelation  of  herself. 

However,  he  had  more  important  things  to  claim  his 
attention  than  the  spectacle  of  a  degraded  soul  making 
public  show  of  its  dishonour. 

He  halted  by  the  wrindow  to  look  out.  Over  the  withered 
tree-tops  of  Bryant  Square,  set  against  the  rich  turquoise 
of  that  late  autumnal  sky,  a  gigantic  sign-board  heralded 
the  news  of  perfidy  to  an  unperceptive  world  that  bustled 
on,  heedless  of  Jules  Max,  ignorant  (largely)  of  the  existence 
of  Hugh  Whitaker,  unconcerned  with  Sara  Law  save  as  she 
employed  herself  for  its  amusement. 

After  all,  the  truth  was  secret  and  like  to  stay  so,  jealously 
husbanded  in  four  bosoms  at  most.  Max  would  guard 
it  as  he  would  a  system  for  winning  at  roulette;  Mary 
Whitaker  might  well  be  trusted  never  to  declare  herself; 
Ember  was  as  secret  as  the  grave.  .  .  . 

Returning  to  the  breakfast  table,  he  took  up  the  paper, 
turned  to  the  shipping  news  and  ran  his  eye  down  the  list 
of  scheduled  sailings:  nothing  for  Friday;  his  pick  of  half 
a  dozen  boats  listed  to  sail  Saturday. 


302     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

The  telephone  enabled  him  to  make  a  hasty  reservation 
on  the  biggest  and  fastest  of  them  all. 

He  had  just  concluded  that  business  and  was  waiting  with 
his  hand  on  the  receiver  to  call  up  Ember  and  announce  his 
departure,  when  the  door-bell  interrupted.  Expecting  the 
waiter  to  remove  the  breakfast  things,  he  went  to  the  door, 
threw  it  open,  and  turned  back  instantly  to  the  telephone. 
As  his  fingers  closed  round  the  receiver  a  second  time,  he 
looked  round  and  saw  his  wife.  .  .  . 

His  hand  fell  to  his  side.  Otherwise  he  did  not  move. 
But  his  glance  was  that  of  one  incuriously  comprehending 
the  existence  of  a  stranger. 

The  woman  met  it  fairly  and  fearlessly,  with  her  head  high 
and  her  lips  touched  with  a  trace  of  her  shadowy,  illegible 
smile.  She  was  dressed  for  walking,  very  prettily  and  per 
fectly.  There  were  roses  in  her  cheeks:  a  healthful  glow 
distinguishable  even  in  the  tempered  light  of  the  hallway. 
Her  self-possession  was  faultless. 

After  a  moment  she  inclined  her  head  slightly.  "The 
hall-boys  said  you  were  busy  on  the  telephone.  I  insisted 
on  coming  directly  up.  I  wish  very  much  to  see  you  for  a 
few  moments.  Do  you  mind  ?" 

"By  no  means,"  he  said,  a  little  stiffly  but  quite  calmly. 
"If  you  will  be  good  enough  to  come  in  — " 

He  stood  against  the  wall  to  let  her  pass.  For  a  breath 
she  was  too  close  to  him :  he  felt  his  pulses  quicken  faintly 
to  the  delicate  and  indefinite  perfume  of  her  person.  But  it 
was  over  in  an  instant :  she  had  passed  into  the  living-room. 
He  followed,  grave,  collected,  aloof. 


TEMPERAMENTAL  303 

"I  had  to  come  this  morning,"  she  explained,  turning. 
"  This  afternoon  we  have  a  rehearsal.  ..." 

He  bowed  an  acknowledgment.     "Won't  you  sit  down?" 

"Thank  you."  Seated,  she  subjected  him  to  a  quick, 
open  appraisal,  disarming  in  its  naive  honesty. 

"Hugh  .  .  .  aren't  you  a  bit  thinner?" 

"  I  believe  so."  He  had  a  match  for  that  impertinence : 
"  But  you,  I  see,  have  come  off  without  a  blemish." 

"  I  am  very  well,"  she  admitted,  unperturbed.  Her  glance 
embraced  the  room.  "You're  very  comfortable  here." 

"I  have  been." 

"I  hope  that  doesn't  mean  I'm  in  the  way." 

"  To  the  contrary ;  but  I  sail  day  after  to-morrow  for 
Australia." 

"Oh?  That's  very  sudden,  isn't  it?  You  don't  seem 
to  have  done  any  packing.  Or  perhaps  you  mean  to  come 
back  before  a  great  while  ?  " 

"  I  shan't  come  back,  ever." 

''Must  I  believe  you  made  up  your  mind  this  morning  ?" 

"  I  have  only  just  read  the  announcement  of  your  opening 
to-morrow  night." 

"Then  ...  I  am  driving  you  out  of  the  country?" 

Her  look  was  impersonal  and  curious.  He  prided  him 
self  that  he  was  managing  his  temper  admirably  — at  least 
until  he  discovered  that  he  had,  inexplicably,  no  temper 
to  speak  of;  that  he,  in  fact,  suffered  mostly  from  what 
seemed  to  be  nothing  more  than  annoyance  at  being 
hindered  in  making  the  necessary  arrangements  against 
his  departure. 


304     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

His  shoulders  moved  negligently.  "Not  to  rant  about 
it,"  he  replied:  "I  find  I  am  not  needed  here." 

"Oh,  dear  !"  Her  lips  formed  a  fugitive,  petulant  moue : 
"And  it's  my  fault?" 

"  There's  no  use  mincing  matters,  is  there  ?  I  am  not 
heartbroken,  and  if  I  am  bitterly  disappointed  I  don't  care 
to  —  in  fact,  I  lack  the  ability  —  to  dramatize  it." 

"You  are  taking  it  well,  Hugh,"  said  she,  critical. 

Expressionless,  he  waited  an  instant  before  inquiring 
pointedly:  "Well  .  .  .?" 

Deliberately  laying  aside  her  light  muff,  her  scarf  and  hand 
bag,  she  rose :  equality  of  poise  was  impossible  if  he  would 
persist  in  standing.  She  moved  a  little  nearer,  examining 
his  face  closely,  shook  her  head,  smiled  almost  diffidently, 
and  gave  a  helpless  gesture. 

"Hugh,"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  sincerity,  "I'm  awfully 
sorry  —  truly  I  am  !" 

He  made  no  reply ;  waited. 

"Perhaps  I'm  wrong,"  she  went  on,  "but  I  think  most 
women  would  have  spared  themselves  this  meeting  — 

"Themselves  and  the  man,"  he  interjected  dryly. 

"  Don't  be  cross,  Hugh.  ...  I  had  to  come.  I  had  to 
explain  myself.  I  wanted  you  to  understand.  Hugh, 
I  -  She  was  twisting  her  hands  together  with  a  manner 
denoting  great  mental  strain.  Of  a  sudden  she  checked  and 
dropped  them,  limp  and  open  by  her  sides.  "You  see,"  she 
said  with  the  apologetic  smile,  "I'm  trying  not  to  act." 

"Oh,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  dawning  comprehension —  "so 
that's  it !" 


TEMPERAMENTAL  305 

"I'm  afraid  so,  Hugh.  .  .  .  I'm  dreadfully  sorry  for 
—  poor  boy  !  —  but  I'm  afraid  that's  the  trouble  with  me, 
and  it  can  never  be  helped.  I  was  born  with  a  talent  for 
acting;  life  has  made  me  an  actress.  Hugh  .  .  .  I've 
found  out  something."  Her  eyes  appealed  wistfully.  "  I'm 
not  genuine." 

He  nodded  interestedly. 

"I'm  just  an  actress,  an  instrument  for  the  music  of 
emotions.  I've  been  trained  to  respond,  until  now  I  respond 
without  knowing  it,  when  there's  no  true  response  here." 
She  touched  the  bosom  of  her  frock. 

He  said  nothing. 

With  a  half  sigh  she  moved  away  to  the  window,  and  be 
fore  she  spoke  again  posed  herself  very  effectively  there, 
looking  out  over  the  park  while  she  cleared  her  mind. 

"  Of  course,  you  despise  me.  I  despise  myself  —  I  mean, 
the  self  that  was  me  before  I  turned  from  a  woman  into  an 
actress.  But  it's  the  truth :  I  have  no  longer  any  real 
capacity  for  emotion,  merely  an  infinite  capacity  for  appre 
ciation  of  the  artistic  delineation  of  emotion,  true  or  feigned. 
That  .  .  .  that  is  why,  when  you  showed  me  you  had  grown 
to  love  me  so,  I  responded  so  quickly.  You  were  in  love 
—  more  honestly  than  I  had  ever  seen  love  revealed.  It 
touched  me.  I  was  proud  to  have  inspired  such  a  love. 
I  wanted,  for  the  time  being,  to  have  you  with  me  always, 
that  I  might  always  study  the  wonderful,  the  beautiful 
manifestations  of  your  love.  Why,  Hugh,  you  even  man 
aged  to  make  me  believe  I  was  worth  it  —  that  my  response 
was  sufficient  repayment  for  your  adoration.  .  .  ." 


306     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

He  said  nothing.  She  glanced  furtively  at  him  and  con 
tinued  : 

"I  meant  to  be  sweet  and  faithful  when  I  left  that  note 
for  you  on  the  yacht,  Hugh ;  I  was  grateful,  and  I  meant  to 
be  generous.  .  .  .  But  when  I  went  to  the  Waldorf,  the 
first  person  I  met  was  Max.  Of  course  I  had  to  tell  him 
what  had  happened.  And  then  he  threw  himself  upon 
my  compassion.  It  seems  that  losing  me  had  put  him  in 
the  most  terrible  trouble  about  money.  He  was  short, 
and  he  couldn't  get  the  backing  he  needed  without  me, 
his  call  upon  my  services,  by  way  of  assurance  to  his  backers. 
And  I  began  to  think.  I  knew  I  didn't  love  you  honestly, 
Hugh,  and  that  life  with  you  would  be  a  living  lie.  What 
right  had  I  to  deceive  you  that  way,  just  to  gratify  my  love 
of  being  loved  ?  And  especially  if  by  doing  that  I  ruined 
Max,  the  man  to  whom,  next  to  you,  I  owed  everything  ? 
I  couldn't  do  it.  But  I  took  time  to  think  it  over  —  truly 
I  did.  I  really  did  go  to  a  sanatorium,  and  rested  there  while 
I  turned  the  whole  matter  over  carefully  in  my  mind,  and 
at  length  reached  my  decision  to  stick  by  Max  and  let  you 
go,  free  to  win  the  heart  of  a  woman  worthy  of  you." 

She  paused  again,  but  still  he  was  mute  and  immobile. 

"  So  now  you  know  me  —  what  I  am.  No  other  man  has 
ever  known  or  ever  will.  But  I  had  to  tell  you  the  truth. 
It  seems  that  the  only  thing  my  career  had  left  uncalloused 
was  my  fundamental  sense  of  honesty.  So  I  had  to  come 
and  tell  you." 

And  still  he  held  silence,  attentive,  but  with  a  set  face 
that  betrayed  nothing  of  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts. 


TEMPERAMENTAL  307 

Almost  timidly,  with  nervously  fumbling  fingers,  she  ex- 
-tracted  from  her  pocket-book  a  small  ticket  envelope. 

"  Max  was  afraid  you  might  upset  the  performance  again, 
as  you  did  on  my  last  appearance,  Hugh,"  she  said;  "but 
I  assured  him  it  was  just  the  shock  of  recognizing  you  that 
bowled  me  over.  So  I've  brought  you  a  box  for  to-morrow 
night.  I  want  you  to  use  it  —  you  and  Mr.  Ember." 

He  broke  in  with  a  curt  monosyllable :  "Why?" 

"  Why  —  why  because  —  because  I  want  you  —  I  sup 
pose  it's  simply  my  vanity  —  to  see  me  act.  Perhaps  you'll 
feel  a  little  less  hardly  toward  me  if  you  see  that  I  am 
really  a  great  actress,  that  I  give  you  up  for  something 
bigger  than  just  love  — 

"What  rot!"  he  said  with  an  odd,  short  laugh.  "Be 
sides,  I  harbour  no  resentment." 

She  stared,  losing  a  little  colour,  eyes  darkening  with  ap 
prehension. 

"I  did  hope  you'd  come,"  she  murmured. 

"Oh,  I'll  come,"  he  said  with  spirit.  "Wild  horses 
couldn't  keep  me  away." 

"Really,  Hugh  ?    And  you  don't  mind  ?     Oh,  I'm  glad!" 

"I  really  don't  mind,"  he  assured  her  with  a  strange 
smile.  "But  .  .  .  would  you  mind  excusing  me  one 
moment?  I've  forgotten  something  very  important." 

"Why,  certainly  .  .  ." 

He  was  already  at  the  telephone  in  the  hallway,  just  be 
yond  the  living-room  door.  It  was  impossible  to  escape 
overhearing  his  words.  The  woman  listened  perforce  with, 
in  the  beginning,  a  little  visible  wonder,  then  with  astonish- 


308     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

ment,  ultimately  with  a  consternation  that  shook  her  with 
violent  tremblings. 

"Hello,"  said  Whitaker;  "get  me  Rector  two-two- 
hundred.  .  .  . 

"Hello?  Rector  two-two-hundred?  North  German 
Lloyd?  .  .  .  This  is  Mr.  H.  M.  Whitaker.  I  telephoned 
you  fifteen  minutes  ago  about  a  reservation  on  the  George 
Washington,  sailing  Saturday  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  ,  . 
Yes,  I  promised  to  call  for  the  ticket  before  noon,  but  I  ajv 
find  I  shan't  be  able  to  go.  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to 
cancel  it,  if  you  please.  .  .  .  Thank  you.  .  .  .  Good- 
by." 

But  when  he  turned  back  into  the  living-room  he  found 
awaiting  him  a  quiet  and  collected  woman,  perhaps  a 
thought  more  pale  than  when  she  had  entered  and  with 
eyes  that  seemed  a  trifle  darker ;  but  on  the  whole  positively 
the  mistress  of  herself. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?"  she  asked  evenly. 

"Because,"  said  Whitaker,  "I've  had  my  eyes  opened. 
I've  been  watching  the  finest  living  actress  play  a  carefully 
rehearsed  role,  one  that  she  had  given  long  study  and  all 
her  heart  to  —  but  her  interpretation  didn't  ring  true. 
Mary,  I  admit,  at  first  you  got  me :  I  believed  you  mean- 
what  you  said.  But  only  my  mind  believed  it;  my  heart 
knew  better,  just  as  it  has  always  known  better,  all  through 
this  wretched  time  of  doubt  and  misery  and  separation 
you've  subjected  us  both  to.  And  that  was  why  I  couldn't 
trust  myself  to  answer  you ;  for  if  I  had,  I  should  have 
laughed  for  joy.  O  Mary,  Mary  !  "  he  cried,  his  voice  soften- 


"I  do  not  love  you.     You  are  mad  to  think  it  " 

Paye  300 


TEMPERAMENTAL  309 

ing,  "  my  dear,  dear  woman,  you  can't  lie  to  love !  You 
betray  yourself  in  every  dear  word  that  would  be  heartless, 
m  every  adorable  gesture  that  would  seem  final !  And  love 
knows  better  always.  ...  Of  course  I  shall  be  in  that  box 
to-morrow  night ;  of  course  I  shall  be  there  to  witness  your 
triumph  !  And  after  you've  won  it,  dear,  I  shall  carry  you 
off  with  me  ..." 

He  opened  his  arms  wide,  but  with  a  smothered  cry  she 
backed  away,  placing  the  table  between  them. 

''No  !"  she  protested ;  and  the  words  were  almost  sobs  — 
"No!" 

"Yes!"  he  exclaimed  exultantly.  "Yes!  A  thousand 
times  yes  !  It  must  be  so  !" 

With  a  swift  movement  she  seized  her  muff  and  scarf  from 
the  chair  and  fled  to  the  door.  There  pausing,  she  turned, 
her  face  white  and  blazing. 

"It  is  not  true!"  she  cried.  "You  are  mistaken.  Do 
you  hear  me?  You  are  utterly  mistaken.  I  do  not  love 
you.  You  are  mad  to  think  it.  I  have  just  told  you  I 
dcn't  love  you.  I  am  afraid  of  you ;  I  daren't  stay  with  you 
for  fear  of  you.  I  —  I  despise  you  !" 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  he  cried,  advancing. 

But  she  was  gone.  The  hall  door  slammed  before  he 
could  reach  it. 

He  halted,  turned  back,  his  whole  long  body  shaking,  his 
face  wrung  with  fear  and  uncertainty. 

"Good  God!"  he  cried — "which  of  us  is  right — she 
or  I?" 


XXI 

BLACK    OUT 

TOWARD  eight  in  the  evening,  after  a  day-long  search 
through  all  his  accustomed  haunts,  Ember  ran  Whitaker 
to  earth  in  the  dining-room  of  the  Primordial.  The  young 
man,  alone  at  table,  was  in  the  act  of  topping  off  an  excel 
lent  dinner  with  a  still  more  excellent  cordial  and  a  super- 
excellent  cigar.  His  person  seemed  to  diffuse  a  generous 
atmosphere  of  contentment  and  satisfaction,  no  less  mental 
than  physical  and  singularly  at  variance  with  his  appear 
ance,  which,  moreover,  was  singularly  out  of  keeping  not 
only  with  his  surroundings  but  also  with  his  normal  aspect. 

He  wore  rough  tweeds,  and  they  were  damp  and  baggy ; 
his  boots  were  muddy;  his  hair  was  a  trifle  disorderly. 
The  ensemble  made  a  figure  wildly  incongruous  to  the 
soberly  splendid  and  stately  dining-hall  of  the  Primordial 
Club,  with  its  sparse  patronage  of  members  in  evening-dress. 

Ember,  himself  as  severely  beautiful  in  black  and  white 
as  the  ceremonious  livery  of  to-day  permits  a  man  to  b?, 
was  wonder-struck  at  sight  of  Whitaker  in  such  uncon 
ventional  guise,  at-  such  a  time,  in  such  a  place.  With 
neither  invitation  nor  salutation,  he  slipped  into  a  chair  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table,  and  stared. 

Whitaker  smiled  benignantly  upon  him,  and  called  a 
waiter. 

310 


BLACK    OUT  311 

Ember,  always  abstemious,  lifted  his  hand  and  smiled 
a  negative  smile. 

Whitaker  dismissed  the  waiter. 

"Well  .  .  .?"    he  inquired  cheerfully. 

"What  right  have  you  got  to  look  like  that?"  Ember 
demanded. 

"The  right  of  every  free-born  American  citizen  to  make 
an  ass  of  himself  according  to  the  dictates  of  his  conscience. 
I've  been  exploring  the  dark  backwards  and  abysm  of 
the  Bronx  —  afoot.  Got  caught  in  the  rain  on  the  way 
home.  Was  late  getting  back,  and  dropped  in  here  to 
celebrate." 

"  I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  since  morning.'^ 

"  I  suspected  you  would  be.     That's  why  I  went  walking  — 
to  be  lonesome  and  thoughtful  for  once  in  a  way." 
»    Ember  stroked  his  chin  with  thoughtful  fingers. 

"You've  heard  the  news,  then?" 

"In  three  ways,"  Wrhitaker  returned,  with  calm. 

"How's  that  — three  ways?" 

"Through  the  newspapers,  the  billboards,  and — from  the 
lips  of  my  wife." 

Ember  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"You've  been  to  see  her  ?" 

"On  the  contrary." 

"The  devil  you  say  !" 

"She  called  this  morning  — 

But  Ember  interrupted,  thrusting  a  ready  and  generous 
hand  across  the  table : 

"  My  dear  man,  I  am  glad  1" 


312     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Whitaker  took  the  proffered  hand  readily  and  firmly. 
"  Thank  you.  ...  I  was  saying :  she  called  this  morning 
to  inform  me  that,  though  wedded  once,  we  must  be  stran 
gers  now  —  and  evermore!" 

"  But  you  —  of  course  —  you  argued  that  nonsense  out 
of  her  head." 

"To  the  contrary  —  again." 

"But  —  my  dear  man  !  —  you  said  you  were  celebrat 
ing;  you  permitted  me  to  congratulate  you  just  now- 

"The  point  is,"  said  Whitaker,  with  a  bland  and  confident 
grin;  "I've  succeeded  in  arguing  that  nonsense  out  of  my 
head  —  not  hers  —  mine." 

Ember  gave  a  helpless  gesture.  "I'm  afraid  this  is  one 
of  my  stupid  nights  ..." 

"I  mean  that,  though  Mary  ran  away  from  me,  wouldn't 
listen  to  reason,  I  have,  in  the  course  of  an  afternoon's  hard 
tramping,  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  is  nothing  un 
der  the  sun  which  binds  me  to  sit  back  and  accept  what 
ever  treatment  she  purposes  according  me  by  courtesy  of 
Jules  Max." 

Whitaker  bent  forward,  his  countenance  discovering  a 
phase  of  seriousness  hitherto  masked  by  his  twisted  smile. 
He  emphasized  his  points  with  a  stiff,  tapping  forefinger  on 
the  cloth. 

"I  mean,  I'm  tired  of  all  this  poppycock.  Unless  I'rn  an 
infatuated  ass,  Mary  loves  me  with  all  her  heart.  She  has 
made  up  her  mind  to  renounce  me  partly  because  Max 
has  worked  upon  her  feelings  by  painting  some  lurid  pic 
ture  of  his  imminent  artistic  and  financial  damnation  if 


BLACKOUT  313 

she  leaves  him,  partly  because  she  believes,  or  has  been  led 
to  believe,  in  this  'destroying  angel'  moonshine.  Now 
she's  got  to  listen  to  reason.  So,  likewise,  Max." 

"You're  becoming  more  human  word  by  word,"  com 
mented  Ember  with  open  approval.  "  Continue ;  elucidate ; 
I  can  understand  how  a  fairly  resolute  lover  with  the 
gift  of  gab  can  talk  a  weak-minded,  fond  female  into  deny 
ing  her  pet  superstition ;  but  how  you're  going  to  get  round 
Max  passes  my  comprehension.  The  man  unquestionably 
has  her  under  contract  - 

"But  you  forgot  his  god  is  Mammon,"  Whitaker  put  in. 
"Max  will  do  anything  in  the  world  for  money.  Therein 
resides  the  kernel  of  my  plan.  It's  simplicity  itself:  I'm 
going  to  buy  him." 

"Buy  Max!" 

"  Body  —  artistic  soul  —  and  breeches,"  Whitaker  af 
firmed  confidently. 

"Impossible!" 

"You  forget  how  well  fixed  I  am.  What's  the  use  of 
my  owning  half  the  gold  in  New  Guinea  if  it  won't  buy  me 
what  I  already  own  by  every  moral  and  legal  right?" 

"He  won't  listen  to  you  ;  you  don't  know  Max." 

"I'm  willing  to  lay  you  a  small  bet  that  there  will  be  no 
first  performance  at  the  Theatre  Max  to-morrow  night." 

"You'll  never  persuade  him — 

"I'll  buy  the  show  outright  and  my  wife's  freedom  to 
boot  —  or  else  Max  will  begin  to  accumulate  the  local 
colour  of  a  hospital  ward." 

Ember  smiled  grimly.     "You're   beginning   to  convince 


314     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

even  me.  When,  may  I  ask,  do  you  propose  to  pull  off  this 
sporting  proposition?" 

"Do  you  know  where  Max  can  be  found  to-night?" 

"At  the  theatre—" 

"  Then  the  matter  will  be  arranged  at  the  theatre  between 
this  hour  and  midnight." 

"  I  doubt  if  you  succeed  in  getting  the  ear  of  the  great  man 
before  midnight;  however,  I'm  not  disposed  to  quibble 
about  a  few  hours." 

"But  why  shouldn't  I?" 

"  Because  Max  is  going  to  be  the  busiest  young  person  in 
town  to-night.  And  that  is  why  I've  been  looking  for 
you.  .  .  .  Conforming  to  his  custom,  he's  giving  an  ad 
vance  glimpse  of  the  production  to  the  critics  and  a  few 
friends  in  the  form  of  a  final  grand  dress-rehearsal  to-night. 
Again,  in  conformance  with  his  custom,  he  has  honoured 
me  with  a  bid.  I've  been  chasing  you  all  day  to  find  out 
if  you'd  care  to  go  — " 

"Eight  o'clock  and  a  bit  after/'  Whitaker  interrupted 
briskly,  consulting  his  watch.  "Here,  boy,"  he  hailed  a 
passing  page;  "call  a  taxicab  for  me."  And  then,  rising 
alertly :  "  Come  along ;  I've  got  to  hustle  home  and  make 
myself  look  respectable  enough  for  the  occasion ;  but  at 
that,  with  luck,  I  fancy  we'll  be  there  before  the  first  cur 
tain." 

This  mood  of  faith,  of  self-reliance  and  assured  optimism 
held  unruffled  throughout  the  dash  homewards,  his  hurried 
change  of  clothing  and  the  ride  to  the  theatre.  Nothing 
that  Ember,  purposely  pessimistic,  could  say  or  do  availed 


BLACK    OUT  315 

to  diminish  the  high  buoyancy  of  his  humour.  He  main 
tained  a  serene  faith  in  his  star,  a  spirited  temper  that  re 
fused  to  recognize  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  desire. 

In  the  taxicab,  en  route  to  the  Theatre  Max,  he  contrived 
even  to  distil  a  good  omen  from  the  driving  autumnal  down 
pour  itself.  .  .  .  The  rain-swept  pavements,  their  polished 
blackness  shot  with  a  thousand  strands  of  golden  brilliance ; 
the  painted  bosom  of  the  lowering,  heavy  sky ;  the  tear- 
drenched  window-panes ;  even  the  incessant  crepitation  on 
the  roof  of  the  scurrying,  skidding  cab  seemed  to  lend  a 
colour  of  assurance  to  his  thoughts. 

"On  such  a  day  as  this,"  he  told  his  doubting  friend, 
"  I  won  her  first ;  on  such  a  day  I  shall  win  her  anew,  finally 
and  for  all  time  ! "  .  .  . 

From  Broadway  to  Sixth  Avenue,  Forty-sixth  Street  was 
bright  with  the  yellow  glare  of  the  huge  sign  in  front  of 
the  Theatre  Max.  But  this  night,  unlike  that  other  night 
when  he  had  approached  the  stage  of  his  wife's  triumphs, 
there  was  no  crawling  rank  of  cabs,  no  eager  and  curious 
press  of  people  in  the  street ;  but  few  vehicles  disputed  their 
way ;  otherwise  the  rain  and  the  hurrying,  rain-coated 
wayfarers  had  the  thoroughfare  to  themselves.  .  .  .  And 
even  this  he  chose  to  consider  a  favourable  omen  :  there  was 
not  now  a  public  to  come  between  him  and  his  love  —  only 
Max  and  her  frightened  fancies. 

The  man  at  the  door  recognized  Ember  with  a  cheerful 
nod  ;  Whitaker  he  did  not  know. 

"  Just  in  time,  Mr.  Ember ;  curtain's  been  up  about  ten 
minutes."  . 


The  auditorium  was  in  almost  total  darkness.  A  single 
voice  was  audible  from  the  stage  that  confronted  it  like 
some  tremendous,  moonlight  canvas  in  a  huge  frame  of 
tarnished  gold.  They  stole  silently  round  the  orchestra 
seats  to  the  stage-box  —  the  same  box  that  Whitaker  had 
on  the  former  occasion  occupied  in  company  with  Max. 

They  succeeded  in  taking  possession  without  attracting 
attention,  either  from  the  owners  of  that  scanty  scattering  of 
shirt-bosoms  in  the  orchestra  —  the  critical  fraternity  and 
those  intimates  bidden  by  the  manager  to  the  first  glimpse 
of  his  new  revelation  in  stage-craft  —  or  from  those  occupy 
ing  the  stage. 

The  latter  were  but  two.  Evidently,  though  the  curtain 
had  been  up  for  some  minutes,  the  action  of  the  piece  had 
not  yet  been  permitted  to  begin  to  unfold.  Whitaker  in 
ferred  that  Max  had  been  dissatisfied  with  something  about 
the  lighting  of  the  scene.  The  manager  was  standing  in 
mid-stage,  staring  up  at  the  borders :  a  stout  and  pompous 
figure,  tenacious  to  every  detail  of  that  public  self  which 
he  had  striven  so  successfully  to  make  unforgettably  in 
dividual  ;  a  figure  quaintly  incongruous  in  his  impeccable 
morning-coat  and  striped  trousers  and  flat-brimmed  silk 
hat,  perched  well  back  on  his  head,  with  his  malacca  stick 
and  lemon-coloured  gloves  and  small  and  excessively  glossy 
patent-leather  shoes,  posed  against  the  counterfeit  of  a 
moonlit  formal  garden. 

Aside  from  him,  the  only  other  occupant  of  the  stage 
was  Sara  Law.  She  sat  on  a  stone  bench  with  her  profile 
to  the  audience,  her  back  to  the  right  of  the  proscenium 


BLACK    OUT  317 

arch ;  so  that  she  could  not,  without  turning,  have  noticed 
the  entrance  of  Ember  and  her  husband.  A  shy,  slight, 
deathlessly  youthful  figure  in  pale  and  flowing  garments 
that  moulded  themselves  fluently  to  her  sweet  and  girlish 
body,  in  a  posture  of  pensive  meditation :  she  was  nothing 
less  than  adorable.  Whitaker  could  not  take  his  eyes  from 
her,  for  sheer  wonder  and  delight. 

He  was  only  vaguely  conscious  that  Max,  at  length 
satisfied,  barked  a  word  to  that  effect  to  an  unseen  elec 
trician  off  to  the  left,  and  waving  his  hand  with  a  gesture 
indelibly  associated  with  his  personality,  dragged  a  light 
cane-seated  chair  to  the  left  of  the  proscenium  and  sat  him 
self  down. 

"  All  ready  ? "  he  demanded  in  a  sharp  and  irritable  voice. 

The  woman  on  the  marble  seat  nodded  imperceptibly. 

"  Go  ahead,"  snapped  the  manager.  .  .  . 

An  actor  advanced  from  the  wings,  paused  and  addressed 
the  seated  woman.  His  lines  were  brief.  She  lifted  her 
head  with  a  startled  air,  listening.  He  ceased  to  speak, 
and  her  voice  of  golden  velvet  filled  the  house  with  the 
flowing  beauty  of  its  unforgettably  sweet  modulations. 
Beyond  the  footlights  a  handful  of  sophisticated  and 
sceptical  habitues  of  the  theatre  forgot  for  the  moment  their 
ingrained  incredulity  and  thrilled  in  sympathy  with  the 
wonderful  rapture  of  that  voice  of  eternal  Youth.  Whitaker 
himself  for  the  time  forgot  that  he  was  the  husband  of  this 
woman  and  her  lover ;  she  moved  before  his  vision  in  the 
guise  of  some  divine  creature,  divinely  unattainable,  a  dream 
woman  divorced  utterly  from  any  semblance  of  reality. 


318     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

That  opening  scene  was  one  perhaps  unique  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  stage.  Composed  by  Max  in  some  mad,  poetical 
moment  of  inspired  plagiarism,  it  not  only  owned  a  poignant 
and  enthralling  beauty  of  imagery,  but  it  moved  with  an 
almost  Grecian  certitude,  with  a  significance  extraordinarily 
direct  and  devoid  of  circumlocution,  seeming  to  lay  bare  the 
living  tissue  of  immortal  drama. 

But  with  the  appearance  of  other  characters,  there  came 
a  change :  the  rare  atmosphere  of  the  opening  began  to  dis 
sipate  perceptibly.  The  action  clouded  and  grew  vague. 
The  auditors  began  to  feel  the  flutterings  of  uncertainty 
in  the  air.  Something  was  failing  to  cross  the  footlights. 
The  sweeping  and  assured  gesture  of  the  accomplished  play 
wright  faltered :  a  clumsy  bit  of  construction  was  damningly 
exposed;  faults  of  characterization  multiplied  depressingly. 
Sara  Law  herself  lost  an  indefinable  proportion  of  her  rare  and 
provoking  charm;  the  strangeness  of  failing  to  hold  her 
audience  in  an  ineluctable  grasp  seemed  at  once  to  nettle 
and  distress  her.  Max  himself  seemed  suddenly  to  wake 
to  the  amazing  fact  that  there  was  something  enormously 
and  irremediably  wrong;  he  began  with  exasperating  fre 
quency  to  halt  the  action,  to  interrupt  scenes  with  advice 
and  demands  for  repetition.  He  found  it  impossible  to  be 
still,  to  keep  his  seat  or  control  his  rasping,  irritable  voice. 
Subordinate  characters  on  the  stag*  lost  their  heads  and 
either  forgot  to  act  or  overacted.  And  then  —  intolerable 
climax  !  —  of  a  sudden  somebody  in  the  orchestra  chairs 
laughed  in  outright  derision  in  the  middle  of  a  passage  meant 
to  be  tenderly  emotional. 


BLACK    OUT  319 

The  voice  of  Sara  Law  broke  and  fell.  She  stood  trembling 
and  unstrung.  Max  without  a  word  turned  on  his  heel  and 
swung  out  of  sight  into  the  wings.  Four  other  actors  on 
the  stage,  aside  from  Sara  Lawr,  hesitated  and  drew  together 
in  doubt  and  bewilderment.  And  then  abruptly,  with 
no  warning  whatever,  the  illusion  of  gloom  in  the  auditorium 
and  moonlight  in  the  postscenium  was  rent  away  by  the  glare 
of  the  full  complement  of  electric  lights  installed  in  the  house. 

A  thought  later,  while  still  all  were  blinking  and  gasping 
with  surprise,  Max  strode  into  view  just  behind  the  footlights. 
Halting,  he  swept  the  array  of  auditors  with  an  ominous  and 
truculent  stare. 

So  quickly  was  this  startling  change  consummated  that 
Whitaker  had  no  more  than  time  to  realize  the  reappear 
ance  of  the  manager  before  he  caught  his  wrathful  and 
venomous  glance  fixed  to  his  own  bewildered  face.  And 
something  in  the  light  that  flickered  wildly  behind  Max's 
eyes  reminded  him  so  strongly  of  a  similar  expression  he 
had  remarked  in  the  eyes  of  Drummond,  the  night  the 
latter  had  been  captured  by  Ember  and  Sum  Fat,  that  in 
alarm  he  half  rose  from  his  seat. 

Simultaneously  he  saw  Max  spring  toward  the  box, 
with  a  distorted  and  snarling  countenance.  He  was  tugging 
at  something  in  his  pocket.  It  appeared  in  the  shape  of  a 
heavy  pistol. 

Instantly  Whitaker  was  caught  and  tripped  by  Ember 
and  sent  sprawling  on  the  floor  of  the  box.  As  this 
happened,  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  firearm,  sharp  and 
vicious  —  a  single  report. 


320     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Unhurt,  he  picked  himself  up  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  Max,  on  the  stage,  momentarily  helpless  in  the  embrace 
of  a  desperate  and  frantic  woman  who  had  caught  his  arms 
from  behind  and,  presumably,  had  so  deflected  his  arm.  In 
the  same  breath  Ember,  who  had  leaped  to  the  railing  round 
the  box,  threw  himself  across  the  footlights  with  the  lithe 
certainty  of  a  beast  of  prey  and,  seemingly  in  as  many  deft 
motions,  knocked  the  pistol  from  the  manager's  hand, 
wrested  him  from  the  arms  of  the  actress,  laid  him  flat  and 
knelt  upon  him. 

With  a  single  bound  Whitaker  followed  him  to  the  stage ; 
in  another  he  had  his  wife  in  his  arms  and  was  soothing  her 
first  transports  of  semi-hysterical  terror.  .  .  . 

******* 

It  was  possibly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  when  Ember 
paused  before  a  door  in  the  ground  floor  dressing-room  gang 
way  of  the  Theatre  Max  —  a  door  distinguished  by  the 
initials  "S  L"  in  the  centre  of  a  golden  star.  With  some 
hesitation,  with  even  a  little  diffidence,  he  lifted  a  hand 
and  knocked. 

At  once  the  door  was  opened  by  the  maid,  Elise.  Recog 
nizing  Ember,  she  smiled  and  stood  aside,  making  way  for 
him  to  enter  the  small,  curtained  lobby. 

"Madam  —  and  Monsieur,"  she  said  with  smiling  sig 
nificance,  "  told  me  to  show  you  in  at  once,  Monsieur  Em 
ber." 

From  beyond  the  curtains,  Whitaker's  voice  lifted  up  im 
patiently :  "That  you,  old  man?  Come  right  in  !" 

Nodding  to  the  maid,  Ember  thrust  aside  the  portieres 


BLACK    OUT  321 

and  stepped  into  the  brightly-lighted  dressing-room,  then 
paused,  bowing  and  smiling  his  self-contained,  tolerant 
smile :  in  appearance  as  imperturbable  and  well-groomed 
as  though  he  had  just  escaped  from  the  attentions  of  a  valet, 
rather  than  from  a  furious  hand-to-hand  tussle  with  a 
vicious  monomaniac. 

Mary  Whitaker,  .as  yet  a  little  pale  and  distrait  and  still 
in  costume,  was  reclining  on  a  chaise-longue.  Whitaker  was 
standing  close  beside  his  wife ;  his  face  the  theatre  of  con 
flicting  emotions ;  Ember,  at  least,  thought  with  a  shrewd 
glance  to  recognize  a  pulsating  light  of  joy  beneath  a  mask 
of  interest  and  distress  and  a  flush  of  embarrassment. 

"I  am  intruding?"  he  suggested  gravely,  with  a  slight 
turn  as  if  offering  to  withdraw. 

"No." 

The  word  faltering  on  the  lips  of  Mary  Whitaker  was  lost 
in  an  emphatic  iteration  by  Whitaker. 

"Sit  down  !"  he  insisted.  "As  if  we'd  let  you  escape, 
now,  after  you'd  kept  us  here  in  suspense  ! " 

He  offered  a  chair,  but  Ember  first  advanced  to  take  the 
hand  held  out  to  him  by  the  woman  on  the  chaise-longue. 

"You  are  feeling  —  more  composed?"  he  inquired. 

Her  gaze  met  his  bravely.     "  I  am  —  troubled,  perhaps  — 
but  happy,"  she  said. 

"Then  I  am  very  glad,"  he  said,  smiling  at  the  delicate 
colour  that  enhanced  her  exquisite  beauty  as  she  made  the 
confession.  "  I  had  hoped  as  much."  He  looked  from  the 
one  to  the  other.  "You  .  .  .  have  made  up  your  minds?" 

The  wife  answered  for  both :   "  It  is  settled,  dear  friend : 


322     THE     DESTROYING    ANGEL 

I  can  struggle  no  longer.  I  thought  myself  a  strong  woman ; 
I  have  tried  to  believe  myself  a  genius  bound  upon  the 
wheel  of  an  ill-starred  destiny ;  but  I  find  I  am"  —  the 
glorious  voice  trembled  slightly  —  "only  a  woman  in  love 
and  no  stronger  than  her  love." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  Ember  repeated,  "for  both  your  sakes. 
It's  a  happy  consummation  of  my  dearest  wishes." 

"We  owe  you  everything,"  Whitaker  said  with  feeling, 
dropping  an  awkward  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder.  "It 
was  you  who  threw  us  together,  down  there  on  the  Great 
West  Bay,  so  that  we  learned  to  know  one  another  .  .  ." 

"I  plead  guilty  to  that  little  plot  —  yes,"  Ember  laughed. 
"But,  best  of  all,  this  comes  at  just  the  right  time  —  the 
rightest  time,  when  there  can  no  longer  be  any  doubts  or 
questions  or  misunderstandings,  no  ground  for  further 
fears  and  apprehensions,  when  'the  destroying  angel'  of 
your  'ill-starred  destiny,'  my  dear"  -he  turned  to  the 
woman  —  "  is  exorcised  —  banished  —  proscribed  - 

"Max  —  I"    Whitaker  struck  in  explosively. 

-  is  on  his  way  to  the  police-station,  well  guarded," 
Ember  affirmed  with  a  nod  and  a  grim  smile.  "I  have  his 
confession,  roughly  jotted  down  but  signed,  and  attested  by 
several  witnesses.  ...  I'm  glad  you  were  out  of  the  way ; 
it  was  rather  a  painful  scene,  and  disorderly;  it  wouldn't 
have  been  pleasant  for  Mrs.  Whitaker.  .  .  .  We  had 
the  deuce  of  a  time  clearing  the  theatre :  human  curi 
osity  is  a  tremendously  persistent  and  resistant  force.  And 
then  I  had  some  trouble  dealing  with  the  misplaced  loyalty 
of  the  staff  of  the  house.  .  .  .  However,  eventually  I  got 


BLACKOUT  323 

Max  to  myself  —  alone,  that  is,  with  several  men  I  could 
depend  on.  And  then  I  heartlessly  put  him  through  the 
third  degree  —  forestalling  my  friends,  the  police.  By 
dint  of  asserting  as  truths  and  personal  discoveries  what  I 
merely  suspected,  I  broke  down  his  denials.  He  owned  up, 
doggedly  enough,  and  yet  with  that  singular  pride  which 
I  have  learned  to  associate  with  some  phases  of  homicidal 
mania.  ...  I  won't  distress  you  with  details :  the  truth 
is  that  Max  was  quite  mad  on  the  subject  of  his  luck ;  he 
considered  it,  as  I  suspected,  indissolubly  associated  with 
Sara  Law.  When  poor  Custer  committed  suicide,  he  saved 
Max  from  ruin  and  innocently  showed  him  the  way  to  save 
himself  thereafter,  when  he  felt  in  peril,  by  assassinating 
Hamilton  and,  later,  Thurston.  Drummond  only  cheated 
a  like  fate,  and  you"  -  —  turning  to  Whitaker  —  "  escaped 
by  the  narrowest  shave.  Max  hadn't  meant  to  run  the 
risk  of  putting  you  out  of  the  way  unless  he  thought  it 
absolutely  necessary,  but  the  failure  of  his  silly  play  in  re 
hearsal  to-night,  coupled  with  the  discovery  that  you  were 
in  the  theatre,  drove  him  temporarily  insane  with  hate,  cha 
grin  and  jealousy." 

Concluding,  Ember  rose.  "I  must  follow  him  now  to  the 
police-station.  .  .  .  I  shall  see  you  both  soon  again — ?" 

The  woman  gave  him  both  her  hands.  "There's  no  way 
to  thank  you,"  she  said  —  "our  dear,  dear  friend  !" 

"No  way,"  Whitaker  echoed  regretfully. 

"No  way?"  Ember  laughed  quietly,  holding  her  hands 
tightly  clasped.  "  But  I  see  you  together  —  happy  —  Oh, 
believe  me,  I  am  fully  thanked  !" 


324     THE    DESTROYING    ANGEL 

Bowing,  he  touched  his  lips  gently  to  both  hands,  re 
leased  them  with  a  little  sigh  that  ended  in  a  contented 
chuckle,  exchanged  a  short,  firm  grasp  with  Whitaker, 
and  left  them.  .  .  . 

Whitaker,  following  almost  immediately  to  the  gangway, 
found  that  Ember  had  already  left  the  theatre. 

For  some  minutes  he  wandered  to  and  fro  in  the  gang 
way,  pausing  now  and  again  on  the  borders  of  the  deserted 
stage.  There  were  but  few  of  the  house  staff  visible,  and  those 
few  were  methodically  busy  with  preparations  to  close  up. 
Beyond  the  dismal  gutter  of  the  footlights  the  auditorium 
yawned  cavernous  and  shadowy,  peopled  only  by  low  rows  of 
chairs  ghostly  in  their  dust-cloths.  The  street  entrances 
were  already  closed,  locked  and  dark.  On  the  stage  a  single 
cluster-stand  of  electric  bulbs  made  visible  the  vast,  gloomy 
dome  of  the  flies  and  the  whitewashed  walls  against  which 
sections  of  scenery  were  stacked  like  cards.  An  electrician 
in  his  street  clothes  lounged  beside  the  door-keeper's  cubicle, 
at  the  stage  entrance,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  conferring 
with  the  doorman  while  subjecting  Whitaker  to  a  curious 
and  antagonistic  stare.  The  muffled  rumble  of  their  voices 
were  the  only  sounds  audible,  aside  from  an  occasional 
racket  of  boot-heels  in  the  gangways  as  one  actor  after 
another  left  his  dressing-room  and  hastened  to  the  street, 
keen-set  for  the  clash  of  gossiping  tongues  in  theatrical 
clubs  and  restaurants. 

Gradually  the  building  grew  more  and  more  empty  and 
silent,  until  at  length  Whitaker  was  left  alone  with  the 
shadows  and  the  two  employees.  These  last  betrayed  signs 


BLACK     OUT  325 

of  impatience.     He  himself  felt  a  little  sympathy  for  their 
.  temper.     Women  certainly  did  take  an  unconscionable  time 
to  dress  !  .  .  . 

At  length  he  heard  them  hurrying  along  the  lower  gang 
way,  and  turned  to  join  his  wife  at  the  stage-entrance.  Elise 
passed  on,  burdened  with  two  heavy  hand-bags,  and  disap 
peared  into  the  rain-washed  alleyway.  The  electrician 
detached  his  shoulders  from  the  wall,  ground  his  cigarette 
under  heel  and  lounged  over  to  the  switchboard. 

Mary  Whitaker  turned  her  face,  shadowy  and  mystical, 
touched  with  her  faint  and  inscrutable  smile,  up  to  her 
husband's. 

"Wait,"  she  begged  in  a  whisper.     "I  want  to  see" 
her  breath  checked  —  "the  end  of  it  all." 

They  heard  hissings  and  clickings  at  the  switchboard. 
The  gangway  lights  vanished  in  a  breath.  The  single 
cluster-stand  on  the  stage  disappeared  —  and  the  house 
disappeared  utterly  with  its  extinguishment.  There  re 
mained  alight  only  the  single  dull  bulb  in  the  doorman's 
cubicle. 

Whitaker  slipped  an  arm  round  his  wife.  She  trembled 
within  his  embrace. 

"Black  out,"  she  said  in  a  gentle  and  regretful  voice: 
"the  last  exit:  Curtain  — End  of  the  Play!" 

"  No,"  he  said  in  a  voice  of  sublime  confidence  —  "  no ; 
it's  only  the  prologue  curtain.  Now  for  the  play,  dear 
heart  .  .  .  the  real  play  .  .  .  life  .  .  .  love  .  .  ." 

THE  END 


Ill  I 

A     000  1 28  494     2 


